# The Plays of Maurice Maeterlinck, Second Series/Home

Home.
To Mademoiselle Sara de Swart.
Persons.
In the Garden.
The Old Man. :
| The Stranger. |
| Martha | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ | granddaughters of the old man. |
| and Mary, | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ | granddaughters of the old man. |
| A Peasant. |
| The Crowd. |
In the House.
| The Father, | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \\\ \\\ \\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ | Silent characters. |
| The Mother, | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \\\ \\\ \\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ | Silent characters. |
| The Two Daughters, | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \\\ \\\ \\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ | Silent characters. |
| The Child, | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \\\ \\\ \\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ | Silent characters. |
Home.
[An old garden, planted with willows. At the back, a house in which three windows on the ground-floor are lighted. A family, sitting up under the lamp, is seen rather distinctly. The father is seated by the fireside. The mother, one elbow on the table, is staring into space. Two young girls, clad in white, embroider, dream, and smile in the quiet of the room. A child lies asleep with his head under the mother's left arm. Whenever one of them rises, walks, or makes a gesture, his movements seem to be grave, slow, rare, and, as it were, spiritualized by the distance, the light, and the vague veil of the windows.
The old man and the stranger enter the garden cautiously.]
THE OLD MAN.
We are in the part of the garden behind the house. They never come here. The doors are on the other side.—They are closed, and the shutters are up. But there are no shutters on this side, and I saw a light. . . . Yes; they are sitting up still under the lamp. It is fortunate they have not heard us; the mother or the young girls would have come out, perhaps, and then what should we have done? . . .
THE STRANGER.
What are we going to do?
THE OLD MAN.
I should like to see, first, if they are all in the room. Yes, I see the father sitting in the chimney-corner. He waits, with his hands on his knees; . . . the mother is resting her elbow on the table.
THE STRANGER.
She is looking at us. . . .
THE OLD MAN.
No; she doesn't know where she is looking: her eyes do not wink. She cannot see us; we are in the shade of great trees. But do not go any nearer. . . . The two sisters of the dead girl are in the room too. They are embroidering slowly; and the little child is asleep. It is nine by the clock in the corner. . . . They suspect nothing, and they do not speak.
THE STRANGER.
If one could draw the father's attention, and make him some sign? He has turned his head this way. Would you like me to knock at one of the windows? One of them ought to be told before the others. . . .
THE OLD MAN.
I don't know which one to choose. . . . We must take great precautions. . . . The father is ​old and ailing. . . . So is the mother; and the sisters are too young. . . . And they all loved her with such love as will never be again. . . . I never saw a happier household. . . . No, no, do not go near the window; that would be worse than anything else. . . . It is better to announce it as simply as possible,—as if it were an ordinary events,—and not to look too sad; for otherwise their grief will wish to be greater than yours and will know of nothing more that it can do. . . . Let us go on the other side of the garden. We will knock at the door and go in as if nothing had happened. I will go in first: they will not be surprised to see me; I come sometimes in the evening, to bring them flowers or fruit, and pass a few hours with them.
THE STRANGER.
Why must I go with you? Go alone; I will wait till I am called. . . . They have never seen me. . . . I am only a passer-by; I am a stranger. . . .
THE OLD MAN.
It is better not to be alone. A sorrow that one does not bring alone is not so unmixed nor so heavy. . . . I was thinking of that as we were coming here. . . . If I go in alone, I shall have to be speaking from the first minute; in a few words they will know everything, and I shall have nothing more to say; and I am afraid of the silence following the last words that announce a woe. . . . It is then the heart ​is rent. . . . If we go in together, I shall tell them, for example, after going a long way about, "She was found so. . . . She was floating in the river, and her hands were clasped." . . .
THE STRANGER.
Her hands were not clasped; her arms were hanging down along her body.
THE OLD MAN.
You see, one speaks in spite of oneself. . . . And the sorrow is lost in the details; . . . but otherwise, if I go in alone, at the first words, knowing them as I do, it would be dreadful, and God knows what might happen. . . . But if we speak in turn, they will listen to us and not think to look the ill news in the face. . . . Do not forget the mother will be there, and that her life hangs by a thread. . . . It is good that the first wave break on some unnecessary words. . . . There should be a little talking around the unhappy, and they should have people about them. . . . The most indifferent bear unwittingly a part of the grief. . . . So, without noise or effort, it divides, like air or light. . . .
THE STRANGER.
Your clothes are wet through; they are dripping on the flagstones.
THE OLD MAN.
It is only the bottom of my cloak that dipped in the water.—You seem to be cold. Your ​chest is covered with earth. . . . I did not notice it on the road on account of the darkness. . . .
THE STRANGER.
I went into the water up to my waist.
THE OLD MAN.
Was it long after you found her when I came?
THE STRANGER.
[In the room, the two young girls turn their heads toward the window.]
THE OLD MAN.
Did you see the two sisters' hair quiver on their shoulders?
THE STRANGER.
They turned their heads this way. . . . They simply turned their heads. Perhaps I spoke too loud. [The two young girls resume their former position.] But they are already looking no longer. . . . I went into the water up to my ​waist and I was able to take her by the hand and pull her without effort to the shore. . . . She was as beautiful as her sisters are.
THE OLD MAN.
She was perhaps more beautiful. . . . I do not know why I have lost all courage. . . .
THE STRANGER.
What courage are you talking of? We have done all man could do. . . . She was dead more than an hour ago. . . .
THE OLD MAN.
She was alive this morning! . . . I met her coming out of church. . . . She told me she was going away; she was going to see her grandmother on the other side of the river where you found her. . . . She did not know when I should see her again. . . . She must have been on the point of asking me something; then she dared not and left me abruptly. But I think of it now. . . . And I saw nothing! . . . She smiled as they smile who choose to be silent, or who are afraid they will not be understood. . . . She seemed hardly to hope. . . . Her eyes were not clear and hardly looked at me. . . .
THE STRANGER.
Some peasants told me they had seen her wandering on the river-bank until nightfall. . . . They thought she was looking for flowers. . . . It may be that her death . . .
THE OLD MAN.
We cannot tell. . . . What is there we can tell? . . . She was perhaps of those who do not wish to speak, and every one of us bears in himself more than one reason for no longer living. . . . We cannot see in the soul as we see in that room. They are all like that. . . . They only say trite things; and no one suspects aught. . . . You live for months by some one who is no longer of this world and whose soul can bend no longer; you answer without thinking; and you see what happens. . . . They look like motionless dolls, and, oh, the events that take place in their souls! . . . They do not know themselves what they are. . . . She would have lived as the rest live. . . . She would have said up to her death: "Monsieur, Madame, we shall have rain this morning," or else, "We are going to breakfast; we shall be thirteen at table," or else: "The fruits are not yet ripe." They speak with a smile of the flowers that have fallen, and weep in the dark. . . . An angel even would not see what should be seen; and man only understands when it is too late. . . . Yesterday evening she was there, under the lamp like her sisters, and you would not see them as they should be seen, if this had not occurred. . . . I seem to see her now for the first time. . . . Something must be added to common life before we can understand it. . . . They are beside you day and night, and you perceive them only at the moment when they ​depart forever. . . . And yet the strange little soul she must have had; the poor, naïve, exhaustless little soul she had, my son, if she said what she must have said, if she did what she must have done! . . .
THE STRANGER.
Just now they are smiling in silence in the room. . . .
THE OLD MAN.
They are at peace. . . . They did not expect her to-night. . . .
THE STRANGER.
They smile without stirring; . . . and see, the father is putting his finger on his lips. . . .
THE OLD MAN.
He is calling attention to the child asleep on its mother's heart. . . .
THE STRANGER.
She dares not raise her eyes lest she disturb its sleep. . . .
THE OLD MAN.
They are no longer working. . . . A great silence reigns. . . .
THE STRANGER.
They have let fall the skein of white silk. . . .
THE OLD MAN.
They are watching the child. . . .
THE STRANGER.
They do not know that others are watching them. . . .
THE OLD MAN.
We are watched too. . . .
THE STRANGER.
They have lifted their eyes. . . .
THE OLD MAN.
And yet they can see nothing. . . .
THE STRANGER.
They seem happy; and yet nobody knows what may be—. . .
THE OLD MAN.
They think themselves in safety. . . . They have shut the doors; and the windows have iron bars. . . . They have mended the walls of the old house; they have put bolts upon the oaken doors. . . . They have foreseen all that could be foreseen. . . .
THE STRANGER.
We must end by telling them. . . . Some one might come and let them know abruptly. . . . There was a crowd of peasants in the ​meadow where the dead girl was found. . . . If one of them knocked at the door . . .
THE OLD MAN.
Martha and Mary are beside the poor dead child. The peasants were to make a litter of leaves; and I told the elder to come warn us in all haste, the moment they began their march. Let us wait till she comes; she will go in with me. . . . We should not have looked on them so. . . . I thought it would be only to knock upon the door; to go in simply, find a phrase or two, and tell. . . . But I have seen them live too long under their lamp. . . .
Enter Mary.
MARY.
They are coming, grandfather.
THE OLD MAN.
Is it you?—Where are they?
MARY.
They are at the foot of the last hills.
THE OLD MAN.
They will come in silence?
MARY.
I told them to pray in a low voice. Martha is with them. . . .
THE OLD MAN.
Are they many?
MARY.
The whole village is about the bearers. They had brought lights. I told them to put them out. . . .
THE OLD MAN.
Which way are they coming?
MARY.
They are coming by the footpaths. They are walking slowly. . . .
THE OLD MAN.
It is time. . . .
MARY.
You have told them, grandfather?
THE OLD MAN.
You see plainly we have told them nothing. . . . They are waiting still under the lamp. . . . Look, my child, look! You will see something of life. . . .
MARY.
Oh, how at peace they seem! . . . You would say I saw them in a dream. . . .
THE STRANGER.
Take care, I saw both sisters give a start. . . .
THE OLD MAN.
They are getting up. . . .
THE STRANGER.
[At this moment, one of the two sisters of whom they speak draws near the first window, the other near the third, and, pressing their hands at the same time against the panes, look a long while into the darkness.]
THE OLD MAN.
No one comes to the window in the middle. . . .
MARY.
They are looking. . . . They are listening. . . .
THE OLD MAN.
The elder smiles at what she does not see.
THE STRANGER.
And the other has eyes full of fearfulness. . . .
THE OLD MAN.
[A long silence. Mary cowers against the old man's breast and kisses him.]
MARY.
Grandfather! . . .
THE OLD MAN.
[A silence.
THE STRANGER.
They are looking a long while. . . .
THE OLD MAN.
They might look a hundred thousand years and not perceive anything, the poor little sisters. . . . The night is too dark. . . . They are looking this way; and it is from that way the misfortune is coming. . . .
THE STRANGER.
It is fortunate they look this way. . . . I do not know what that is coming toward us, over by the meadows.
MARY.
I think it is the crowd. . . . They are so far away you can hardly make them out. . . .
THE STRANGER.
They follow the undulations of the path. . . . Now they appear again on a hillside in the moonlight. . . .
MARY.
Oh, how many they seem! . . . They had already run up from the suburbs of the city when I came. . . . They are going a long way around. . . .
THE OLD MAN.
They will come in spite of all; I see them too. . . . They are on the march across the meadow lands. . . . They seem so small you hardly make them out among the grasses. . . . They look like children playing in the moonlight; and if the girls should see them, they would not understand. . . . In vain they turn their backs; those yonder draw near with every step they take, and the sorrow has been growing these two hours already. They cannot hinder it from growing; and they that bear it there no longer can arrest it. . . . It is their master too, and they must serve it. . . . It has its end and follows its own road. . . . It is unwearying and has but one idea. . . . Needs must they lend their strength. They are sad, but they come. . . . They have pity, but they must go forward. . . .
MARY.
The elder smiles no longer, grandfather. . . .
THE STRANGER.
They leave the windows. . . .
MARY.
They kiss their mother. . . .
THE STRANGER.
The elder has caressed the curls of the child without waking him. . . .
MARY.
Oh! the father wants to be kissed too. . . .
THE STRANGER.
And now silence. . . .
MARY.
They come back beside the mother. . . .
THE STRANGER.
And the father follows the great pendulum of the clock with his eyes. . . .
MARY.
You would say they were praying without knowing what they did. . . .
THE STRANGER.
[A silence.
MARY.
Grandfather, don't tell them to-night! . . .
THE OLD MAN.
You see, you too lose courage. . . . I knew well that we must not look. I am nearly eighty-three years old, and this is the first time the sight of life has struck me. I do not know why everything they do seems so strange and grave to me. . . . They wait for night quite simply, under their lamp, as we might have been waiting under ours; ​and yet I seem to se them from the height of another world, because I know a little truth which they do not know yet. . . . Is it that, my children? Tell me, then, why you are pale, too? Is there something else, perhaps, that cannot be told and causes us to weep? I did not know there was anything so sad in life, not that it frightened those who looked upon it. . . . And nothing can have occurred that I should be afraid to see them so at peace. . . . They have too much confidence in this world. . . . There they are, separated from the enemy by a poor window. . . . They think nothing will happen because they have shut the door, and do not know that something is always happening in our souls, and that the world does not end at the doors of our houses. . . . They are so sure of their little life and do not suspect how many others know more of it than they; and that I, poor old man,—I hold here, two steps from their door, all their little happiness, like a sick bird, in my old hands I do not dare open. . . .
MARY.
Have pity, grandfather. . . .
THE OLD MAN.
We have pity on them, my child, but no one has pity on us. . . .
MARY.
Tell them to-morrow, grandfather; tell them when it is light. . . . They will not be so sorrowful. . . .
THE OLD MAN.
Perhaps you are right, my child. . . . It would be better to leave all this in the night. And the light is sweet to sorrow. . . . But what would they say to us to-morrow? Misfortune renders jealous; they whom it strikes, wish to be told before strangers; they do not like to have it left in the hands of those they do not know. . . . We should look as if we had stolen something. . . .
THE STRANGER.
There is no more time, besides; I hear the murmur of prayers already. . . .
MARY.
There they are. . . . They are passing behind the hedges. . . .
Enter Martha.
MARTHA.
Here I am. I have brought them this far. I have told them to wait on the road. [Cries of children heard.] Ah! the children are crying again. . . . I forbade their coming. . . . But they wanted to see too, and their mothers would not obey. . . . I will go tell them. . . . No; they are silent.—Is everything ready?—I have brought the little ring that was found on her. . . . I have some fruit, too, for the child. . . . I laid her out myself on the littler. She looks as if she were asleep. . . . I had a good deal of trouble; her hair would not obey. . . . I ​had some marguerites plucked. . . . It is sad, there were no other flowers. . . . What are you doing here? Why are you not by them? . . . [She looks at the windows.] They do not weep? . . . They . . . you have not told them?
THE OLD MAN.
Martha, Martha, there is too much life in your soul; you cannot understand. . . .
MARTHA.
Why should I not understand? . . . [After a silence and in a tone of very grave reproach.] You cannot have done that, grandfather. . . .
THE OLD MAN.
Martha, you do not know. . . .
MARTHA.
I will tell them.
THE OLD MAN.
Stay here, my child, and look at them a moment.
MARTHA.
Oh, how unhappy they are! . . . They can wait no longer.
THE OLD MAN.
Why?
MARTHA.
I do not know; . . . it is no longer possible! . . .
THE OLD MAN.
Come here, my child. . . .
MARTHA.
How patient they are!
THE OLD MAN.
Come here, my child. . . .
MARTHA.
[Turning.] Where are you, grandfather? I am so unhappy I cannot see you any more. . . . I do not know what to do myself any more. . . .
THE OLD MAN.
Do not look at them any more; till they know all. . . .
MARTHA.
I will go in with you. . . .
THE OLD MAN.
[The murmur of prayers has gradually drawn nearer. Part of the crowd invades the garden. Dull steps heard, running, and low voices speaking.]
THE STRANGER (to the crowd).
Stay here; . . . do not go near the windows. . . . Where is she? . . .
A PEASANT.
Who?
THE STRANGER.
The rest . . . the bearers? . . .
THE PEASANT.
[The old man goes away. Martha and Mary are seated on the bench, with their backs turned to the windows. Murmurs in the crowd.]
THE STRANGER.
[The elder of the two sisters rises and goes to bolt the door. . . .]
MARTHA.
She opens it?
THE STRANGER.
[A silence.
MARTHA.
Grandfather has not entered?
THE STRANGER.
[A silence.
MARTHA.
Sister, give me your hands. . . .
MARY.
[They embrace and give each other a kiss.
THE STRANGER.
He must have knocked. . . . They have all raised their heads at the same time; . . . they look at each other. . . .
MARTHA.
[She stifles her sobs on her sister's shoulder.
THE STRANGER.
He must be knocking again. . . . The father looks at the clock. He rises.
MARTHA.
Sister, sister, I want to go in too. . . . They cannot be alone any longer. . . .
MARY.
[She holds her back.
THE STRANGER.
The father is at the door. . . . He draws the bolts. . . . He opens the door prudently. . . .
MARTHA.
Oh! . . . you do not see the . . .
THE STRANGER.
What?
MARTHA.
Those who bear. . . .
THE STRANGER.
He hardly opens it. . . . I can only see a corner of the lawn; and the fountain. . . . He does not let go the door; . . . he steps back. . . . He looks as if he were saying: "Ah, it's you!" . . . He raises his arms. . . . He shuts the door again carefully. . . . Your grandfather has come into the room. . . . {{hi|{{right|[The crowd has drawn nearer the windows. Martha and Mary half rise at first, then draw near also, clasping each other tightly. The old man is seen advancing into the room. The two sisters of the dead girl rise; the ​mother rises as well, after laying the child carefully in the armchair she has just abandoned; in such a way that from without that little one may be seen asleep, with his head hanging a little to one side, the centre of the room. The mother advances to meet the old man and extends her hand to him, but draws it back before he has had time to take it. One of the young girls offers to take off the visitor's cloak and the other brings forward a chair for him; but the old man makes a slight gesture of refusal. The father smiles with a surprised look. The old man looks toward the windows.}}}}
THE STRANGER.
[Rumors in the crowd.
THE STRANGER.
[The old man, seeing their faces at the windows, has quickly turned his eyes away. As one of the young girls continues to offer him the same armchair, he ends by sitting down and passes his right hand across his forehead several times.]
THE STRANGER.
[The other people in the room sit down also, while the father talks volubly. At last the old man opens his mouth, and the tone of his voice seems to attract attention. But the father interrupts him. The old man begins to speak again, and little by little the others become motionless. All at once, the mother starts and rises.]
MARTHA.
[She turns away and hides her face in her hands. New murmurs in the crowd. They elbow each other. Children cry to be lifted up, so that they may see too. Most of the mothers obey.]
THE STRANGER.
[The mother is seen to question the old man in anguish. He says a few words more; then abruptly all the rest rise too and seem to question him. He makes a slow sign of affirmation with his head.]
THE STRANGER.
He has told them. . . . He has told them all at once! . . .
VOICES IN THE CROWD.
He has told them! . . . He has told them! . . .
THE STRANGER.
[The old man rises too, and, without turning, points with his finger to the door behind him. The mother, the father, and the two young girls throw themselves on this door, which the father cannot at once succeed in opening. The old man tries to prevent the mother from going out.
VOICES IN THE CROWD.
They are going out! They are going out! . . . {{hi|{{right|[Jostling in the garden. All rush to the other side of the house and disappear, with the ​exception of the stranger, who remains at the windows. In the room, both sides of the folding-door at last open; all go out at the same time. Beyond can be seen a starry sky, the lawn and the fountain in the moonlight, while in the middle of the abandoned room the child continues to sleep peacefully in the armchair.—Silence.]}}}}
THE STRANGER.
[He goes out also.
[Curtain.]