Читать книгу Woman on Her Own, False Gods and The Red Robe - Eugène Brieux - Страница 12

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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 Nérisse'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 Nérisse 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 Nérisse. 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 Nérisse. 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 Nérisse. 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 Nérisse. But we make no noise. We are not in any way objectionable.

Monsieur Mafflu. Oh, no, no; not at all.

Madame Nérisse. 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 Nérisse. 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 Nérisse. 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 Nérisse. But there are plenty of women who work.

Monsieur Mafflu. Oh, common women, yes; oh, that's all right.

Madame Nérisse. 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 Nérisse. But there are women who have got no home.

Monsieur Mafflu. That's their own fault.

Madame Nérisse. 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 Nérisse. 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 Nérisse [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 Nérisse. Why not?

Monsieur Mafflu. 'Cos Wednesday's her day.

Madame Nérisse [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 Nérisse. 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 Nérisse. 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 Nérisse. 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 Nérisse [laughing] You're too kind.

Monsieur Mafflu. Then you forgive me?

Madame Nérisse [going to the door with him] What would one not forgive you?

Monsieur Mafflu [turning back] I say—

Madame Nérisse. No, no. Good-bye, Monsieur.

Monsieur Mafflu. Good-bye, Madame.

He goes out.

Madame Nérisse [to herself] One really couldn't be angry!

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

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

Madame Nérisse. How is Madame Guéret?

Thérèse. Very well, he says.

Madame Nérisse. And does Monsieur Guéret like his new home?

Thérèse. Yes, very much.

Madame Nérisse. And Madame Guéret?

Thérèse. She seems to be quite happy.

Madame Nérisse. What a good thing. Here's the letter Monsieur Nérisse has written for you to that editor. [She hands her an unsealed letter]

Thérèse. Oh, thank you!

Madame Nérisse. Did you find out when he could see you?

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

Madame Nérisse. Yes, certainly.

Thérèse. Thank you.

Madame Nérisse. Why don't you read your letter? You see it's open.

Thérèse. I'll shut it up.

Madame Nérisse. Read it.

Thérèse. Shall I?

Madame Nérisse. Yes, do.

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

Madame Nérisse [coldly] Yes. [She makes an effort to be kind] I'll tell him, of course. But I dictated the letter myself. Monsieur Nérisse only signed it. [She rings]

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

Madame Nérisse [to the page boy] I expect Monsieur Cazarès.

Boy. Monsieur—?

Madame Nérisse. Our old editor—Monsieur Cazarès. You know him very well.

Boy. Oh, yes, Madame, yes!

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

Boy. Yes, Madame.

During this conversation Thérèse 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 Nérisse'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 Nérisse. Monsieur Cazarès 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 Cazarès?

Thérèse [simply] Nothing at all.

Madame Nérisse. Isn't he just a wee bit in love with you?

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

Madame Nérisse. He's always behaved quite nicely to you?

Thérèse. Always.

Madame Nérisse. And Monsieur Nérisse?

Thérèse. Monsieur Nérisse? I don't understand.

Madame Nérisse. Oh, yes, you do. Has he ever made love to you?

Thérèse. [hurt] Oh, Madame!

Madame Nérisse. [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 Nérisse is not as fond of me as he used to be.

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

Madame Nérisse. 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 Thérèse] 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 Nérisse's door—the door on the left—the door on the right opens, and Mademoiselle Grégoire comes in. She has taken off her hat. Madame Nérisse turns to her] Why, it's Mademoiselle Grégoire! You know, Dr. Grégoire! [To Mademoiselle Grégoire] This is Mademoiselle Thérèse. [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]

Thérèse. [pleasantly] I really don't know what Madame Nérisse wants me to explain to you. You know our paper?

Mademoiselle Grégoire. No, I've never seen it.

Thérèse. Never seen it! Never seen Woman Free?

Mademoiselle Grégoire. Never. I only know it by name.

Thérèse. 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 Nérisse thought of that.

Mademoiselle Grégoire [reading as she turns over the leaves] "Votes for Women."

Thérèse [reading with her] "Votes for Women," "An End of Slavery." And then, on here, lighter things.

Mademoiselle Grégoire. Frivolities?

Thérèse. Frivolities. A story. "Beauty Notes."

Mademoiselle Grégoire [reading and laughing a little] "The Doctor's Page."

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

Mademoiselle Grégoire [still laughing] I shall bear up. And what comes after "The Doctor's Page"?

Thérèse. "Beauty Notes" and "Gleanings."

Mademoiselle Grégoire. Gleanings?

Thérèse. 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 Grégoire. Quite a good thing.

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

Mademoiselle Grégoire. I'm not at all surprised.

Thérèse. I'm afraid we can't conceal from ourselves that Monsieur Nérisse 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 Grégoire. It makes her furious?

Thérèse. 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 Grégoire. Shall I have much to do with her?

Thérèse. 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 Grégoire [taking up the paper again] But how's this? Your contributors are all men. Gabriel de—, Camille de—, Claud de—, René de—, Marcel de—.

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

Mademoiselle Grégoire. All men's names?

Thérèse. 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, René, Gabriel.

Mademoiselle Grégoire. There's only one woman's name—Vicomtesse de Renneville.

Thérèse. That's snobbery! It's Madame Nérisse's pen-name.

Mademoiselle Grégoire. 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, Thérèse.

Thérèse. This is Mademoiselle de Meuriot. [Introducing Mademoiselle Grégoire] Our new contributor.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. You're welcome, Mademoiselle.

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

Madame Nérisse. Yes, dearest. Yes, dearest. Yes, dearest.

Mademoiselle Grégoire looks up at Madame Nérisse.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot and Thérèse turn away their heads to hide their smiles; finally Madame Nérisse shuts the door, not having noticed anything, and comes forward. She speaks to Mademoiselle Grégoire.

Madame Nérisse. Come, my dear. I'll introduce you to the others. [To Mademoiselle de Meuriot] Ah! the post has come. Open the letters, Thérèse, will you?

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. Yes, we will.

Madame Nérisse [at the door on the right, to Mademoiselle Grégoire] You first. [They go out]

Mademoiselle de Meuriot [smiling] I think our new friend was a bit amused. She's pretty.

Thérèse. Yes, and she looks capable.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. Let's get to work.

She sits down, at a desk. Thérèse sits near her at the end of the same desk. During all that follows Thérèse 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.

Thérèse. 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.

Thérèse. 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, Thérèse.

Thérèse. 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?

Thérèse. 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.

Thérèse. 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.

Thérèse. 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, Thérèse! 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.

Thérèse [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.

Thérèse. 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.

Thérèse. What will Madame Nérisse 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] Thérèse has an ardent soul.

Thérèse. Yes, Thérèse 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!

Thérèse [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!

Thérèse [smiling] Some day or other I must tell you a whole lot of things about René.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. Have you seen him again?

Thérèse. Yes.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. But you were supposed not to meet any more.

Thérèse [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 René 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 René has done, do you now?

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. No.

Thérèse. 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?

Thérèse [looking at her knowingly] You'll make me blush.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. Was it for love of you?

Thérèse. 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 René 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?

Thérèse. Oh, he'll come back.

Mademoiselle de Meuriot. And when will the wedding be?

Thérèse. 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.