Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays - Various

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Didn't you yourself say a minute ago that he'd find me anywhere. If you're with me, he'll have no difficulty in finding you, too. Wouldn't it be better if each—

      Marg. Wretch! Now you want to leave me in a lurch! Why, only a few minutes ago you were on your knees before me. Have you no conscience?

      Gil. What's the use? I am a sick, nervous man, suffering from hypochondria. [Margaret at the window utters a cry.]

      Gil. What's up? What will the general's widow think?

      Marg. It's he. He's coming back.

      Gil. Well, then—

      Marg. What? You intend to go?

      Gil. I didn't come here to pay the baron a visit.

      Marg. He'll encounter you on the stairs. That would be worse. Stay. I refuse to be sacrificed alone.

      Gil. Now, don't lose your senses. Why do you tremble like that? It's quite absurd to believe that he's already gone through both novels. Calm yourself. Remove your hat. Off with your cloak. [Assists her.] If he catches you in this frame of mind he can't help but suspect.

      Marg. It's all the same to me. Better now than later. I can't bear waiting and waiting for the horrible event. I'm going to tell him everything right away.

      Gil. Everything?

      Marg. Yes. And while you are still here. If I make a clean breast of everything now maybe he'll forgive me.

      Gil. And me—what about me? I have a higher mission in the world, I think, than to suffer myself to be shot down like a mad dog by a jealous baron. [The bell rings.]

      Marg. It's he! It's he.

      Gil. Understand, you're not to breathe a word.

      Marg. I've made up my mind.

      Gil. Indeed, have a care. For, if you do, I shall sell my hide at a good price. I shall hurl such naked truths at him that he'll swear no baron heard the like of them.

      Clem. [entering, somewhat surprised, but quite cool and courteous]. Oh, Mr. Gilbert! Am I right?

      Gil. The very same, Baron. I'm traveling south, and I couldn't repress the desire to pay my respects to madame.

      Clem. Ah, indeed. [Pause.] Pardon me, it seems I've interrupted your conversation. Pray, don't let me disturb you.

      Gil. What were we talking about just now?

      Clem. Perhaps I can assist your memory. In Munich, if I recall correctly, you always talked about your books.

      Gil. Quite so. As a matter of fact, I was speaking about my new novel.

      Clem. Pray, continue. Nowadays, I find that I, too, can talk literature. Eh, Margaret? Is it naturalistic? Symbolic? Autobiographical? Or—let me see—is it distilled?

      Gil. Oh, in a certain sense we all write about our life-experiences.

      Clem. H'm. That's good to know.

      Gil. Yes, if you're painting the character of Nero, in my opinion it's absolutely necessary that you should have set fire to Rome—

      Clem. Naturally.

      Gil. From what source should a writer derive his inspiration if not from himself? Where should he go for his models if not to the life which is nearest to him? [Margaret becomes more and more uneasy.]

      Clem. Isn't it a pity, though, that the models are so rarely consulted? But I must say, if I were a woman, I'd think twice before I'd let such people know anything—[Sharply.] In decent society, sir, that's the same as compromising a woman!

      Gil. I don't know whether I belong to decent society or not, but, in my humble opinion, it's the same as ennobling a woman.

      Clem. Indeed.

      Gil. The essential thing is, does it really hit the mark! In a higher sense, what does it matter if the public does know that a woman was happy in this bed or that?

      Clem. Mr. Gilbert, allow me to remind you that you are speaking in the presence of a lady.

      Gil. I'm speaking in the presence of a comrade, Baron, who, perhaps, shares my views in these matters.

      Clem. Oh!

      Marg. Clement! [Throws herself at his feet.] Clement.

      Clem. [staggered]. But—Margaret.

      Marg. Your forgiveness, Clement!

      Clem. But, Margaret. [To Gilbert.] It's very painful to me, Mr. Gilbert. Now, get up, Margaret. Get up, everything's all right; everything's arranged. Yes, yes. You have but to call up Künigel. I have already arranged everything with him. We are going to put it out for sale. Is that suitable to you?

      Gil. What are you going to put out for sale, if I may be so bold as to ask? The novel madame has written?

      Clem. Ah, so you know already. At all events, Mr. Gilbert, it seems that your camaraderie is not required any further.

      Gil. Yes. There's really nothing left for me but to beg to be excused. I'm sorry.

      Clem. I very much regret, Mr. Gilbert, that you had to witness a scene which might almost be called domestic.

      Gil. Oh, I do not wish to intrude any further.

      Gil. Madame—Baron, may I offer you a copy of my book as a token that all ill-feeling between us has vanished? As a feeble sign of my sympathy, Baron?

      Clem. You're very good, Mr. Gilbert. I must, however, tell you that this is going to be the last, or the one before the last, that I ever intend to read.

      Gil. The one before the last?

      Clem. Yes.

      Marg. And what's the last going to be?

      Clem. Yours, my love. [Draws an advanced copy from his pocket.] I wheedled an advance copy from Künigel to bring to you, or, rather, to both of us. [Margaret and Gilbert exchange scared glances.]

      Marg. How good of you! [Taking the book.] Yes, it's mine.

      Clem. We will read it together.

      Marg. No, Clement, no. I cannot accept so much kindness. [She throws the book into the fireplace.] I don't want to hear of this sort of thing any more.

      Gil. [very joyful]. But, dear madame—

      Clem. [going toward the fireplace]. Margaret, what have you done?

      Marg. [in front of the fireplace, throwing her arms about Clement]. Now, do you believe that I love you!

      Gil. [most gleeful]. It appears that I'm entirely de trop here. Dear Madame—Baron—[To himself.] Pity, though, I can't stay for the last chapter. [Goes out.]

      [Curtain.]

       Table of Contents

       By Maurice Maeterlinck

       Table of Contents

CHARACTERS
The Grandfather [blind]. The Father. The Three Daughters. The Uncle. The Servant.

      The present translation of The Intruder is the anonymous version published by Mr. Heinemann in 1892, the editor having, however, made some slight alterations in order to

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