University of Virginia Library

Act 2.

Scene 1.

Beatrice
is walking in the garden of her villa, near the seat of the war. The house is behind: over a low fence, or ha-ha, she looks towards a long dusty French road, straight, rigid, bordered by poplars. She soliloquizes:
Strange, but to-day I feel a deep depression.
The air is bright, the garden flowers are sweet,
No more disastrous news has yet arrived
From the army. My dear husband is in Paris,
Recovered quickly from his dangerous wound,
Or nearly so. Would he had ta'en me with him:
A sad and dark foreboding fills my soul;
I feel as if ill news were in the wind.
And yet what further ill news can there be
Now that my Edward, safe and sound, has passed
Far from the bitter peril of this war,
Yet without loss of honour? true, these battles
So fierce and sanguinary, fill the soul
Of one who loves sweet France, as I her daughter
Do love her, with a horror wide, far reaching.
But there is hope they tell me, grand hope yet,
That all may be retrieved with final honour.
It is not for my France, I feel to-day,
These doubts, this dismal load of weighty care.
[She stoops and plucks a flower.
Oh, little blossom, little tender blossom,
I'm lonely here, be thou a sweet companion.
[She blows off the petals, one by one, her eyes filling with tears.
Go thou and find my husband, where he dwelleth,
Go thou, go thou. Fly little quivering petal,
With soft wings floating through the country air,
Over broad fields towards all the din of Paris.
Tell him I love him, long for him; that roses
Here in the country, tender roses, yearn
For his glad coming, pine for his return.
[She raises her eyes towards the country.
Yet, this tall figure glittering in the distance—
[Shading her eyes with her hand.
His seat is like my husband's in the saddle.
His form is like my husband's; but he comes
From the direction of the recent fighting.
The Paris road is on the other side.
My husband went in weakness too, yet bent
From the remaining trouble of his wound.
[Her face flushes, and she becomes greatly agitated.
Of course it is my husband though—of course;
He's not been long away; why am I troubled?
Quiet, wild heart! I'll to the gate to meet him!
[Scene shifts to the gate. Beatrice standing there alone; the rider approaching. He dismounts at a little distance from the gate, gives his horse to an attendant, and approaches her. She stares at him wildly.
My husband!

Ray.
—Husband! not yet; Edward Raynor
Hopes to deserve that title. 'Tis a time,
However, to put pleasant hopes aside.
See, I am stained with dust and gore of battle.
Our army—the French army—is defeated;
Aye, bitterly defeated, sweet; wrecked, routed,
Destroyed I might have said—but not dishonoured.
I cannot tarry; 'tis not safe for you.
The Germans in the madness of their victory,
Hot with the frenzy of a fierce pursuit,
Will presently be here. This quiet garden
Will soon be trampled by the invaders' steeds,
And roses, not as these—hot, sanguine roses,
Roses of brave men's outpoured blood, will redden.
The sound of battle has not reached you here?
Oh, tender oasis within the desert:
Would, lady-love, that I might linger here.

[For the first time he takes note of her bewilderment, having been too excited and intent upon his story to do so before.
Bea.
(she murmurs, pale as death)
—Good God; two husbands—two!

Ray.
—Why, sweet, what is it?
[He approaches nearer, and would embrace her. She, trembling from head to foot, motions him away.
Good heaven! she does not know me. Beatrice, darling,
Surely you know your lover, Edward Raynor?
When your sweet scorn refused my suit in Paris;
When you, love, taunted me with want of courage,
With want of love for your adopted land,
I swore to falsify the bitter words.
So, by some influence then at my disposal,
Gained a commission in the brave French army;
Hastened to meet the frowning wave of war,
Fought, laboured, suffered. Lastly, here I am.
I heard, by merest accident, that you
Were all alone within this dreary château;
I heard no more.

Bea.
—Oh, Edward—Edward—Edward!
[Drawing out each word with a long sob.
Go; you must go. I cannot, cannot tell you.
Leave me for ever, and all thought of me.
I do not change, but fate has come between us.
I am married.

Ray.
—Married!

Bea.
—Married.

Ray.
(He changes his tone.)
—Married—to whom?

Bea.
—I do not know—to you.
To you in spirit, surely; for I married
Your name, your face, your seemly whole appearance.
A wounded officer came to my château—
Came—rather he was carried on a litter;
We took him in, attended to his wounds,
For he was you—you—you—yes, Edward Raynor.
His face was yours; his voice was yours; he is—
He is, and you are not, my lord and husband.

Ray.
—Then, who am I? am I not Edward Raynor?
You speak to me; you call me Edward Raynor.

Bea.
—I know you. Yes, you are my true first lover.

Ray.
—But, sweet, the wild mistake! were you not dreaming?

Bea.
—Dreaming! my life will ever be a dream.

Ray.
—But you are mine; you married him not knowing.

Bea.
—Yet are the oaths of marriage firm and sure.

Ray.
—Good God! my Beatrice, you cannot mean
To tarry true to untruth. Let me find him;
This sword is red with German blood already;
Now let it pierce the dark soul of a traitor.

Bea.
—My husband's soul?

Ray.
—Why, I—I am your husband.

Bea.
—He is my husband.

Ray.
—Nay, my sweet, he is not;
You grow confused, no wonder, with this madness:
Let a man's mind, a man's sword, cut the knot.
I'll go and find this paragon in Paris.
You shall be free; we will be free again.
You married the pale ghost of Edward Raynor;
The ghost is dead—here Edward stands himself.

Bea.
—What makes you guess my husband is in Paris?

Ray.
—Surely he is not here? That news were good,
Too good. I simply guessed the villain, hearing
Of the approach of my division—knowing,
As he would know, most surely, our engagement,
Had fled beforehand, to escape this visit.
But, now, get ready, love; we must away.

Bea.
—It cannot be; no, Edward, I must meet him,
Meet him alone. You must return without me.

[A noise and shouting in the village.
Ray.
—The Prussians! Lady fair, there is no choice.

Bea.
—Come, then; let us lie hidden in the château.
These Germans will not long be in the village;
It has been sacked already by the French.

[They pass quickly towards the house.

Scene 2.

The Village.—Prussian Soldiers and French Peasants.
Prussian Soldier (1)
(to French Peasant, who is vainly trying, or pretending to try, to catch a pig).

—Now then, Donner und
Blitz, you damned French cochon,
can't you even catch your own pig!
you slow-footed, lumbering, slumbering,
frog-breeder—stir your lagging
timbers.

[Another Soldier prods the Frenchman with his bayonet, who gesticulates wildly.
Prussian Sergeant.

—Gently, gently. A good
battle, a brave battle; the hills about
Worth and Speicheren were well washed
in the fresh French red wine when we
won our first victories, and now we're
treading the juicy grapes all through
the fields of France. There's much
German blood shed, too—alas! alas!

Soldier (2).

—What shall we do with this
prisoner? (Hauling a small French soldier up and down by the collar).

—Shoot him against the barn door there?
I think he was a spy; he may stand
and drop for a spy at any rate; uniforms
and scarlet breeches don't go
for much on such a day as this. Put
him up against the barn door, I say.
He looks for all the world like a Cochin

China cock with his baggy trousers.
Come along, comrades.

[While the Sergeant is occupied with some pigs and fowls, they put him up against the barn door, and prepare to shoot him: he curses them in bitter guttural French. Just before they fire, in rushes Amine, the maid of the village, a very pretty French girl; she fixes her eyes on the French soldier, recognises him, and exclaims—

Ah, Gustave, Gustave, my love. (She rushes towards him, embraces him, throws her body in front of him, endeavouring to shield him with her arms. The Prussian soldiers look on and laugh. The French soldier is pale, but resolute and silent. At last he speaks with emotion)—

Amine, Amine, darling, this is no
place for you. Go—go, I beseech you,
go, for my sake. What does it matter
about me? Go.

Am.

—What, go! and leave you to be shot?
Gustave, you are a Frenchman, but
you don't understand a French woman,
a French girl, even yet. Go and leave
you! Ah! my Gustave—poor silly,
silly Gustave.

Gus.

—Poor silly, silly Amine, you can do no
good. Go, to your mother, give her
my love. Tell her I died as no base spy,
no foul German coward. (Looking

towards the Germans with unutterable hatred and contempt).
But as a true
soldier; a true lover of France, and
of—Amine. And tell my father the
same—my father, far away in the little
cottage that looks on the vineyard—
what is he doing, I wonder? What
will he do when he hears? What,
Amine, you will not go? Then (rising to his full height)

I order you to go.
You promised you would always obey
me.

Am.

—I will not obey you. I will not go.

Gus.

—But I shall be angry, sweet one. Good
God! they will have no mercy. I tell
you to go.

Am.

—And I say I will not go—not if you told
me ten thousand times. Through my
maiden body they shall shoot my hero,
my darling, my lover—through my
heart, through my breast. (Hastily she throws off her shawl and neckerchief and stands in front of him, her arms extended, her eyes flashing, her bosom bare.)

The Sergeant steps forward, smiling brutally

—Not so bad—not so bad for a French
girl. (Aside to his comrades.)
And as
pretty a woman too, as ever I saw.
What eyes now she's angry. She's
the best bird in the farmyard—a peacock,
all eyes and fury, is better than

a goose or a fluffy fowl. (Winks at them.)

Now, I'll just tell you what,
young woman. You come along with
us—along with us, I say, and we'll let
your lover go free. We don't care
about him—scurvy French scoundrel,
but you—you're not a man, you know.
Come, my darling. (He advances nearer.)

[The girl turns round to her lover and kisses him. She puts her hand in her bosom.
The Sergeant.

—What, you won't come, soft
and quiet, little fool. Why, I am a
better looking man than your paltry
private, any day of the month. (Draws himself up.)

Come, boys, pull her
away there, but don't hurt her
white arms—too pretty for that.
Shoot the men, and spare the women
—“The gallant they slaughtered, the
lovely they spared”—you know the
old ditty.

[The Soldiers advance upon Amine and her lover.
Ser.

—Pretty red lips, they are, my dear.
Don't waste them upon him, and don't
begin too soon. You'll have plenty of
kisses presently.

Am.

—Fool.

[As the Soldiers advance she suddenly draws out a knife, turns to her lover (who has been unable to move, being bound to the paling) kisses him passionately, and says—
Do you remember, love, this knife you gave me?
'Twas years ago, when first you came a courting.
It might be useful some day—so you said.
Its use has come—to strike two lovers dead.
[She stabs him to the heart, and then pierces her own bosom. As she falls she looks towards the Sergeant, half smiling.
Poor fool!

[The Soldiers gather round the bleeding bodies in some dismay, and the curtain falls.

Scene 3.

A Room in the château.—The Germans visible from the window, hunting about in the grounds. Beatrice and Edward Raynor together. They look from the window.
Ray.

—Well, Mrs. Raynor, for so I suppose I
must call you, as you have been kind
enough to marry me, tho' you're not
my wife. I suppose the rascal had
the grace to attach himself to my
honourable name? Well, what are
we to do now? Here we are in this
room; you say the secret door which
leads to it cannot fail to baffle those
inquisitive wretches of Germans. By
Jove! there's one of them in the
garden kissing the old girl who looks

after the cows; she must be at least
eighty! Well chosen, German! But
what are we to do? They may stay
here for days. It strikes me, Beatrice,
that in every point we have behaved
like—two English fools. It was all
very well—your love for France. As
it was your adopted country—as you
were brought up from childhood in it,
and all its ways were your ways, that
passionate attachment to France was
not to be wondered at. But, really,
to send me off to enlist; to come
down to your château close to the
war, on some wild dream, I suppose,
of being of use to the wounded; to
wind up by marrying my half-brother,
my chief enemy in the world (for I
suppose, by the long description of
the whole affair which you have been
giving me, that it must be he); and
now to be together in this way, likely
to be starved to death in an old French
château. Really, the whole thing, if
it were not so utterly mad and miserable,
would be ludicrously absurd.
What are we to do?

Bea.

—Stay here till the Germans go.

Ray.

—When will they go?

Bea.

—I don't know.

Ray.

—And what are we to do, when they do
go?

Bea.

—I don't know.

Ray.

—On the whole, you seem to be in a
happy state of general ignorance, Mrs.
Raynor.

Bea.

—Don't call me that.

Ray.

—Why not?

Bea.

—I don't like the name.

Ray.

—But it is your name, surely. You
chose it yourself.

Bea.

—Chose it!

Ray.

—Yes, chose it. He asked you something,
and you answered.

Bea.

—What did I answer?

Ray.

—You answered yes, I imagine, with
great readiness.

Bea.

—But, then, Edward, Edward, you know
I thought he was you.

Ray.

—And I was him. We must mind our
grammar here; it shows signs of becoming
involved. Are you sure you
thought that?

Bea.

—Quite sure.

[Sounds of shouting and firing outside.
Bea.

—What a strange situation to be placed
in, though. Fancy your sitting here,
Edward, making love to a married
woman who has married you, and yet
is not your wife, with the enemy
“making hay” in the garden.

Ray.

—Let them make hay while the sun
shines. That is just what I want to
do while—my sun is shining upon me.

I like making love to a married woman
in the middle of a battle—especially
when she's my own wife all the time;
it has a spice of unusual romance about
it. Romance is everything in love.

Bea.

—Just so; romance, and a lot of scrambling,
rambling, gambolling Germans
outside, and a secret chamber.

Ray.

—And a pretty woman in it. Do you
know, Beatrice—Mrs. Raynor, I mean
—do you know that you're prettier
than ever?

Bea.

—No.

Ray.

—But you are. It must be the excitement
of the war, I suppose—the
Prussians and the firing outside, and
all that sort of thing. Why, you are
quite flushed. You are ever so much
prettier than you were at that dismal
last interview of ours in Paris, which
sent me off to this—

Bea.

—Hush!

Ray.

—Confounded, I was going to say—this
confounded war. How is it, Mrs.
Raynor?

Bea.

—Again! (Rising, and pretending to move to the door.)

If you talk in that
way, sir, I'll go and join the Prussians
immediately. They say some of the
Prussian officers are exceedingly handsome.
Do you know whether that is
true?

Ray.

—Why, yes, I do know. I had an encounter
the other day with one, who
was about the handsomest young
fellow I ever saw. He nearly killed
me (she visibly grows pale for a moment; starts and trembles)

—poor
fellow.

Bea.

—And—you killed him—quite, I suppose?

Ray.

—Well—yes—I believe so. The fortune
of war. It might very well have been
the other way. Indeed, now you are
—Mrs. Ray—nor—I almost wish it
had been so.

Bea.

—Hush, hush, things are better as they
are.

Ray.

—Not so. But, as I was saying, you
have grown so pretty, Beatrice. Indeed,
you are not pretty now; you are
beautiful—a fit bride for a poet, not
for a mere tongueless, imaginationless
soldier. I shall begin to make verses
about you—about those wild, grey
eyes of yours!

Bea.

—Whatever you do—don't!

Ray.

—But I will—my beauty, my queen—I
have done so already. Listen, while
I sing you a song which I wrote about
you one evening in camp, after a hard
day's fighting—expecting a harder
day's fighting on the morrow. We
were encamped, I remember, by the
side of a glorious old wood—thick

green trees stretching away for miles,
and a stream in front. I had been
washing my sword in the stream (she shudders)

and afterwards I thought of
you, my darling, far away from all
such horrid scenes, in perfect peace
and safety—as I hoped—and I plucked
a wild rose—pink as your cheeks, now
they flush so sweetly—to bring you,
when the battles were over, and peace
came again. There it is! (He opens the breast of his coat, takes out a dried wild rose, and flings it towards her gently. She lets it lie in her lap untouched.)

And afterwards I wrote the
song. And all that time, Beatrice,
Beatrice—oh, Beatrice, more loved,
and yet more faithless unto me than
the Beatrice whom Dante worshipped
of old—all that time, while I was
dreaming about you, praying for you,
fighting for you and your France—
yes, fighting for France out of sheer
love for you, being an Englishman, and
not in any way concerned in this
country's peevish and petty quarrels
myself—while I was doing and suffering
all this, not altogether as I hope
ignobly—you—you—the joy of my life,
the flower of my dreams, the pride
of my heart—you were calmly marrying
my worst enemy—pleasantly and
profitably occupied in ruining your own
life and mine for ever and ever! Oh,
Beatrice, I have a great mind—indeed
I have—to break this cursed sword
once and for all that has brought such
trouble upon us—or to break it in my
own body (he plays with his sword nervously)

—or in yours. Shall I kill
you, Beatrice? Would that bring us
any nearer together—would that solve
our perplexed problem? Shall I kill
you, Beatrice? (I have washed the
sword, since it killed the last German.)
Shall I dye it in richer and sweeter
blood?

Bea.

—If you like. But sing me that song
first.

Ray.

—Oh, oh, you've not forgotten the song?
Well, well (slamming back his sword, which he had half drawn while last speaking)

songs first, I suppose, and
swords afterwards! 'Tis the way of
women. Love-songs lead to the
glitter of crossed swords often enough,
I'm afraid, though. But the song,
the song.

[He sings.

[She listens, rapt.
Ray.

—Now, my lady, a kiss for a true lover's
true love-song—eh?

[She draws back.

But, why not (growing impatient—they have both risen)

—what possible harm
is there in it? You married me,
besides—you are my wife—you made
all your vows to me—you did everything
except kiss me, and now I want
the kiss. Come, sweet, I mean to
have it. It is not the first time you
have kissed your husband, gentle
maiden—frigid matron, I should say.

[But she withdraws further.

(He continues)
—Why, there is your
picture hanging against the wall. At
any rate, I'll take that down, and kiss it
—instead of its sour, frowning—bitter,
cruel—unkind, perverse—thoughtless,
pitiless, feelingless, coquettish, heartless
(looking towards her half angrily,

half humorously; she begins to sob)
original.

[He approaches the picture to take it down. Just as he reaches out his hand to touch it, a bullet crashes through the window, and smashes the portrait—covering his hand with fragments of broken wood and glass.
Bea.

—An omen, Edward. Fate won't let you
have even the portrait, you see. It is
not to be.

Ray.

—The more cause, then, surely, why I
should possess myself, and that as
speedily as possible, of the far fairer
original. But enough of words. For
God's sake don't play with me any
more, but tell me what—

Bea.

—Has that glass cut you?

Ray.

—You mean to do. Here am I—your
husband is—I don't know where.
What is to be the end of it? Shall I
kill him? Kill you? Kill myself?—
or—perhaps, best of all—kill all three.
I believe three deaths are lucky.

Bea.

—I have made up my mind. I will go
into a convent.

[He actually laughs out, long and heartily but bitterly.

And that is to be the end of our
romance, is it? But Beatrice, that
won't save you. You will be married
still. He will seek you there, and will

have a right to do so. Perhaps he may
even be able to remove you. Think of
some better plan.

[An old servant rushes in; he wrings his hands and cries—

Oh, my lady, my lady, your maid,
Amine—the pride of the village. She
lies out there, dead, dead. And Gustave
is dead too, and the Prussians
have found the secret passage to this
room. Fly—fly—they will be here in
a moment.

[Edward and Beatrice stand bewildered. He draws his sword, and prepares himself, but, quick as lightning, she snatches it from him, and flings it out of the open window.

No, Edward, not for my sake; not yet.
I know your thought, but it is needless.
There is an officer of repute
here (looking from the window)
, I know
him by sight. We will yield ourselves
prisoners quietly to him.

Ray.
(folds his arms).

—There is no help for
it.

[Prussians with officer enter.
They yield.

Prussian Officer.

—I fear, madam, that you
will have to be separated. My orders
are imperative. You shall be treated
with every courtesy, but I may have to
set a guard over the château for a
time, and confine you to your apartments,

lest you communicate with the
enemy. Ladies have done so before
now, and that with no inconsiderable
success. But I will order my troops
to keep out of the way as much as
possible, and to offer no violence whatever
to your servants; that your rooms
may be quiet and private. I regret
deeply the plundering of the village,
and the outrages performed there: it
was all done by an advanced guard of
my soldiers, under insufficient officership.
They were hot and furious from
some unusually hard fighting, too,
which must be their excuse. We
Germans do not wish to earn a name
in history for rapine and pillage. The
English journals have been hard and
bitter enough against us already, and
very often without any adequate cause.
But then the chief delight of the
English now-a-days—it used not to
be so—is to sit by inactive while hard
fighting is going on, and then to complain
peevishly of the conduct of both
combatants—a feeble and poor-spirited
course of action, as it seems to us.

Bea.

—Sir! I am an Englishwoman.

Prussian Off.

—A thousand pardons. I did
not know it, or I should not have
spoken so freely. Yet I think there
is truth in what I have said. However,

now that I am here in person,
there will be no more violence offered
to the villagers; thorough discipline
will be at once restored. And this
gentleman (turning towards Raynor)

is he too a wandering Englishman,
perversely fighting for France—having
got tired of partridge-shooting and
pheasant-shooting at home? His face
is English.

Ray.

—Yes, I am English, and a prisoner
now, I suppose?

Prussian Off.

—A prisoner, certainly. If
wandering Englishmen will enter the
armies of other countries, through
sheer love of fighting (Or love of woman. Ray. aside to Beatrice)
,
they
must expect to be occasionally taken
prisoner; occasionally even shot. You
will have to be sent to the rear, and
thence to Germany. (To his Soldiers.)

Take charge of this officer. Let him
be treated with every respect, and
conveyed to the rear as speedily as
possible.

Beatrice to Raynor
(both advancing towards the front of the stage). With music—
And so we part again—is it not sad,
This little time Fate gives us to be glad?

Ray.-
Yea, lady, yet I part not in despair,
One comfort have I—'tis that thou art fair.

Bea.-
The old poor comfort that a woman gives,
She grants no strength beyond this, while she lives.

Ray.-
But 'tis enough—enough for life and time—
One comfort wholly perfect—large, sublime.

Bea.-
What—comfort just to know a blossom blows?

Ray.-
Yes—when one's heart is wrapt within the rose!

Bea.-
Comfort to watch a flower—then pass away?

Ray.-
The flowers of true love fade not, nor decay.

Bea.-
True love is baffled ever; sorrow it brings.

Ray.-
Nay, rather, pleasure on resplendent wings.

Bea.-
True love is insufficient fate to dare.

Ray.-
True love is conqueror—sweet love is fair.

Bea.-
True love shall join us surely in the end.
But now, farewell, eternal, noble friend.
Your song I have, I learnt it as you sung,
By heart I know it—around my heart it clung,
My soul with joy yet bitterness it stung.

Ray.-
Farewell! farewell! oh heart so sweet—so young.