Princess Bebé/Act 2
Grand Hall in the Casino of a winter resort upon the Riviera, situated upon the border between Italy and France.
Diana de Lys is greeting the Queen of Sheba. Visitors and attendants in the background.
Diana. Of course it is chance, but the same thing has happened two years in succession. As I was beginning to win, I saw you. It is the first time that anything has come my way this season. Did you run down from Paris?
Queen. Jaunting around.
Diana. When did you arrive? I always look over the lists.
Queen. Since my hit in the pantomime "The Queen of Sheba," at the Olympia last winter, I have changed my name. You were in Italy at the time; it was a popular departure, fully equal to your sensation in "Le Bain de la Parisienne," only mine was more fully undress, especially at the end before Solomon. That rascally Flo-Flo invented a light effect__
Diana. I should have returned from Italy if I had known it. How were the notices?
Queen. Wonderful! Lorraine wrote me two columns of insults; I can never thank him enough. Since then nobody thinks of me but as the Queen of Sheba.
Diana. I seem to recall the name; I wondered who that new one could be.
Queen. Well, it was I; only it was nothing new.
Diana. Are you alone?
Queen. Yes, this is a pleasure trip. How are you getting on? Are you still with the Comte? What million is he in now? In Paris, the report is that he is down to his last.
Diana. Very likely, at the rate he is going. If he spent it on himself, it would not be so bad; but the trouble is he likes to see it spent.
Queen. As blasé as ever, I suppose?
Diana. He has reached the limit. Nothing excites or stirs his interest in the least. Everybody here lives off him, including his secretary, Chantel.
Queen. I remember that fellow. He is clever.
Diana. No more than the rest. The Comte buys carriages and automobiles which he never even sees; his friends and his friends' friends ride in them and show themselves off. He deals out thousand-franc notes by the handful, so that others can play, who lose, naturally. He never goes near a table himself. If you tell him that a play is good, he sends his friends, and then forbids them to mention it afterward. At one time dress was his hobby, but now he leaves all that sort of thing to his secretary.
Queen. Has he slipped you along, too, to the secretary?
Diana. No, he still loves me. I am the only person who can do anything with him, as you will discover when we return to Paris; I shall be Comtesse de Tournerelles. I should like to see more of you here, very naturally, but my friends are rather select; I cannot afford to take any chances.
Queen. Who are your friends?
Diana. My dear, with art and religion a woman enters any society. Christians and artists will receive anybody, and thank you for the opportunity. Although one must be a little discreet, and careful to keep up appearances.
Queen. So you have gone in for religion?
Diana. No, I am reserving that for my old age; for the present I get on with art. I belong to a musical coterie; we adore music—Wilf's music. What music! I suppose you never heard of Wilf? He is scarcely in your line. He was an extraordinary genius who died in a madhouse, raving, because nobody appreciated his music. After his death, his widow, Mme. Clemencia Wilf, and his son Gottfried
Queen. What a horrible name!
Diana. The title of a symphonic poem by his father. The son and widow, together with a little group of enthusiasts, made up their minds that Wilf's music should be admired and appreciated by everybody, so they organized a company and began giving concerts, some of them conducted by Wulf—have you never heard of Wulf?—others by Gottfried Wilf. Nobody paid any attention at first; some even went so far as to throw potatoes; but, little by little, a change for the better set in, and soon all fell at the feet of Mme. Wilf. People lost their heads, the number of admirers increased
Queen. And you lost yours, too—I can see it.
Diana. Nonsense! Nobody was fooled, except a few earnest admirers, who are necessary in any business. However, the widow, the son and the conductor, not to speak of the musicians, understand perfectly how to take advantage of persons who are perfectly willing to be taken advantage of, so long as they appear superior to others who do not understand and appreciate the music of Wilf. Some very distinguished names occurred on the list, so I exerted my influence with the Comte de Tournerelles to have him take stock in the Wilf and Wulf Concerts Company. The other shareholders welcomed me with open arms. Much was forgiven, because I had loved much—the music of Wilf, their idol. Now I belong to the smart set, I associate with people who are chic, with princesses, the nobility, with great artists. I am preparing my entrée to the fashionable circles of Paris this winter upon the arm of the Comte de Tournerelles and the wings of Wilf's music. You cannot tell me anything about art, my old partner.
Queen. It takes my breath away. If you had been a man, you could have gone anywhere.
Diana. The one thing I have never wanted to be is a man. Pardon, some friends of my group… We shall see more of each other again.
Queen. You have not told me who is here yet.
Diana. It is awfully dull. No one does anything any more; everybody comes for some purpose. I never saw it so stupid before carnival. La Zaragoza, the Spanish dancer, is the only woman who is enjoying herself; it is the same with her everywhere.
Queen. Is that wild beast in town? I should not have come if I had known it. We had a fight at Trouville last summer, right out in the middle of the Casino. They called the bets off on both sides when they stopped us.
Diana. I might be interested later. Good luck, until next time.
Queen. Au revoir, Comtesse. [Goes out.
Mme. Wilf, Wulf, Wilf, Elsa Königsberg, and the Duchessa d'Arcole enter.
Diana. Is the opera over?
Mme. Wilf. We were able to endure only the first two acts, out of sympathy for the artists. Opera? Imagine calling such a thing opera!
Wulf. Mankind has suffered a long time under the imposition.
Wilf. Yet there are persons who sit there and actually listen to it as if it were music.
Elsa. The Comtesse displayed rare taste in declining to accompany us.
Diana. Although I should not have hesitated if it had not been for the music. I met an old school friend on my way to the opera-house; we could not resist stopping and recalling old times. Does the Prince join us this evening?
Elsa. The Prince had the bad taste to sit out the opera.
Diana. Well, is there any news? Has the concert been arranged? Has the Casino accepted our proposition.?
Wilf. It has in the abstract; we have only to discuss the details. We anticipate a great sensation.
Elsa. I am charmed with your programme.
Wilf. As the audience will be intelligent, we need scarcely give that feature consideration.
Wulf. It comes fully prepared.
Mme. Wilf. It is no longer a question of initiating a brood of neophytes, but of appealing to a chosen circle of the élite, who are already believers.
Wilf. You will realize that you have never before listened to music. We shall play the three great symphonic poems: "The Slumber Poem," "The Poem of the Idea," and "The Poem of Silence."
Mme. Wilf. On the whole I consider the last the greatest work of Wilf.
Wulf. Nobody has been able to understand it as yet.
Wilf. It ceases to be what it is the moment that it is understood.
Mme. Wilf. It had only one performance in London, but five ladies fainted. Two of the first violins committed suicide a week after taking part in the concert.
Wulf. I never conduct the work without—shall I say religious?—preparation. I confine myself to my rooms during the week preceding the concert; I speak to no one—I bury myself in the rare, the divine pages bequeathed to us by the Master. I receive whatever food is necessary in order to support the ordeal, and at last rise to a state of mystic exaltation, without which it is idle to aspire to a proper interpretation of the sublime masterpiece. After the concert is over, Mme. Wilf will tell you the condition I am in.
Mme. Wilf. Unfortunately. We apply a cold compress, and bring him to with a strong punch, reinforced with rum. It is a work which can be performed safely only now and then. My son is not able to conduct it as yet.
Wilf. Although I have studied since the age of six. My interpretation differs radically from that of Herr Wulf.
Wulf. But you are not able to justify your readings. For example, why should the second movement of "The Poem of the Idea" be lento, while you take "Silence" vivace? The ideal interpretation would be one in which "Silence" was not heard at all, while the "Idea" should be passed over as rapidly as possible, with the swiftness of thought. I hope and pray to find an orchestra some day which is capable of catching the idea.
Mme. Wilf. Fascinating, is it not? What does Your Highness think? What do you think, Comtesse? And you, too, Duchessa?
Duchessa. [Reviving] Ah! I beg your pardon…
Diana. The Duchessa is still at the Italian opera.
Duchessa. No, it is difficult to acquire new tastes at my age. Nothing appeals to me so much as "La Sonnambula." As a concert number, give me "La Mandolinata."
Diana. Oh, Duchessa!
Duchessa. [Aside to Diana] Nonsense! I know good music when I hear it—and good society.
Diana. Dissimulate.
Duchessa. Yes, if we are to continue good friends.
Diana. Hush! They may hear us.
Duchessa. What if they do? They are no better than we are; we are all playing a part. This Princess is not a princess, you are not a countess, and I am not a duchess. The widow of that musician is probably not a widow, if you care to look into it, nor is her husband's music music if it comes to be heard. We all know what we are doing here, and the best thing that others can do is to seem not to know anything.
Diana. Duchessa! You surprise me.
Duchessa. Not much. We both of us know a good time when we see one, and we have seen our good times, too, but not this season.
Diana. We were young and thoughtless then; we have had leisure since to meditate.
Duchessa. It is beyond me how you can put up with that Princess, who only two months ago was singing in operetta. I have heard all she knows on a hand-organ. Now it appears she is not only an artist, she is a great lady.
Diana. I shall give myself away if you make me laugh. [Aloud] The Duchessa confesses the superiority of the new music. At bottom, it is the only music.
Duchessa. It is at bottom. I feel it; I understand it. Although— [Humming. A pause] Undeniably that is beautiful; it always makes me cry.
Elsa. Why, Duchessa!
Duchessa. However, when we complete our temple, our Bayreuth
Wulf. Ah! Our Bayreuth? Bayreuth is another tradition which is doomed presently to disappear.
Mme. Wilf. Although we must concede Wagner some merit. He was a timid precursor.
Wulf. Who had his successes; but compared with our temple, our vast concert-hall, upon a mountain-top, beside the sea—it should be on an island, if possible
Wilf. Where there will be ample space for all the devotees to assemble once a year.
Wulf. As we hope and believe, our dream is about to be realized.
Mme. Wilf. We have unlimited capital for its construction.
Wilf. Not only for the temple, but for hotels and restaurants, and watever else may be necessary.
Wulf. We anticipate a great rush.
Mme. Wilf. Probably; although it is a phase we prefer not to dwell on. We are thinking only of him.
Wulf. Not of him—of it—it, his idea. Rather than of what he did, we prefer to think of what he might have done.
Mme. Wilf. To it—it, his ideal idea!
Duchessa. [Aside to Diana] If these people are not making money out of this, then they are the greatest fools I ever heard of.
The Comte de Tournerelles and Chantel enter.
Comte. Amusing mistake, was it not? Suppose some gentleman had presented himself and had insisted upon a duel? In that case it would have been still more amusing.
Chantel. If you had fought him yourself. I approached Her Highness on your behalf, under instructions, as your emissary.
Comte. At a distance, I thought she was a cocotte. But you should have known better.
Chantel. How was I to tell? I thought the same when I got near. She was sitting at one of the tables playing trente et quarante. An elderly woman occupied the next chair, who was far from respectable. One played red, the other black; meanwhile they bet on the side, and laughed as they played.
Comte. Capital! What did you do?
Chantel. I suggested a fresh combination. They were delighted. You know—it never fails. They placed their money at my disposition
Comte. How much of it have you left?
Chantel. Not a sou, I assure you; I lost it all. The Princess—it was then that she turned out to be a princess—persisted in sliding her bare arm around my shoulder. I confess that I was nervous. I pressed my foot against hers beneath the table
Comte. But what did she do?
Chantel. It wasn't she, it was the old lady. As soon as I recovered sufficiently, I laubched my proposal—your proposal—and the Baroness, whose title I forget, broke loose with a torrent of the most villainous abuse, in the course of which I discovered who the distinguished lady was, whom we had misjudged so lightly.
Comte. But what did she do?
Chantel. I cannot say that she seemed offended. She stood up and laughed.
Comte. Encouragement to continue. Who is this Princess? Not Princess Helena of Suavia, who eloped with her husband's secretary?
Chantel. Yes, and she is here with him now, waiting until the Emperor consents to a divorce.
Comte. A divorce? What does she want of a divorce? Not to marry the secretary? It is unworthy of her. I am attracted to that Princess. I might take up the adventure myself at the point where you left off. A princess is deserving of some attention.
Chantel. Funds are running low. I understand that the happy couple are negotiating a loan, regardless of cost. The Emperor is starving them out—siege and famine. The Prince Consort announces that he will no longer be responsible for the debts of his wife, the other relatives withhold their support so as not to fall into the Emperor's bad graces, trente et quarante fails to prove more propitious
Comte. Good! Keep me advised of further progress. I shall introduce myself to the Princess to apologize for my secretary.
Chantel. Thanks.
Comte. Wilf's music will furnish an excuse for a concert at my villa, to which I may invite Her Highness.
Chantel. But suppose Diana becomes suspicious?
Comte. Diana has a talent for becoming suspicious. However, I have promised to marry her, whatever happens. High society will be a good thing for us both, and high is high.
Chantel. Yes, and it will be high. By the way, how much do you intend to subscribe to the Wilf and Wulf Concerts Company for their new theatre? I am unable to rest; the mere mention of money makes those people nervous.
Comte. Five thousand francs more than the largest subscriber.
Chantel. There are subscriptions for fabulous sums.
Comte. The fifty thousand francs, which I have promised already.
Chantel. Ah! You have a letter… La Zaragoza, the Spanish dancer, writes me—that is, she writes you—carnival is approaching and she is anxious to make a hit in the Battle of Flowers. She wishes to appear well at the Casino dances.
Comte. Ten thousand francs.
Chantel. L'Écho de la Côte d'Azure publishes an article by its most distinguished contributor, devoted wholly to you. He says
Comte. Three thousand francs.
Chantel. Le Moniteur du Grand Monde publishes your portrait—with mine.
Comte. Three thousand five hundred.
Chantel. I have dropped during the week
Comte. Why persist in these ridiculous combinations?
Chantel. At what hour will it be convenient for you to sign checks to-morrow?
Comte. At what hour? At what hour will it be convenient for me to sign checks? Don't ask me that question again. Any hour will be convenient. Make inquiries about the Princess; as a diversion, I find her more interesting. I must speak to these people.
Chantel. Meanwhile I shall resume my investigations. [Retires.
Comte. [Joining the group] Ladies and gentlemen… Your Highness… Madame!
Mme. Wilf. I believe that my son has already expressed our appreciation of your generous contribution to the cause.
Comte. Do not mention it again.
Wulf. You have the soul of an artist; you comprehend our work and its significance.
Wilf. We hope to inscribe your name in our temple as patron.
Diana. We plan to be present each season.
Comte. [Aside] No! That is too much.
Diana. Silence! Leave it to me.
Comte. Would it be possible to arrange a little rehearsal at my villa, previous to the public concert? Your husband's music, as it seems to me, requires a select audience if it is to be appreciated, an atmosphere of intimacy, of sympathy, of… of…
Diana. Perhaps we might be able to arrange a quiet concert.
Wilf. I can see no objection to that.
Mme. Wilf. [Aside] Fifty thousand francs deserves some substantial recognition.
Wulf. Monsieur le Comte need only name the day, and I assume responsibility for a satisfactory result.
Elsa. May I volunteer to sing the lament, that marvellous passage?
Mme. Wilf. Your Highness! Is it possible? If you do, it will be the first time that it has been rendered by a pure artist.
Elsa. I shall bring to it all the pathos of my art.
Wulf. The soul of the master will rise in his grave as you sing.
Mme. Wilf. He will be sure to hear you. We entertain no shadow of doubt.
Comte. [Aside to Diana] We shall hear Her Highness, too—at less distance.
Diana. It is a far cry from "La Belle Hélène" to Wilf's music.
Comte. No further than the jump from stage princess to princess in fact.
Diana. Although double somersaults are less usual in high art than in good society. Anybody can rub elbows with a king or a grandee, but Shakespeare and Beethoven are something quite different. I am not as much of a fool as you think.
Comte. You certainly are not.
Diana. I failed as an actress and determined to be a countess, and found that I was built for the part.
Mme. Wilf. As the hour is late, we must retire. Gottfried has still to consecrate the better half of the night to his labors.
Wulf. I also must husband my energies for the approaching concert.
Elsa. Apparently the Prince has endured the opera to the end. We had hoped to retire early this evening ourselves.
Comte. No, the Prince has left the theatre. I saw him at one of the tables a few moments ago.
Elsa. At one of the tables? Disgusting!
Comte. He always becomes more animated about midnight.
Elsa. Will you lead me to him at once?
Comte. With the greatest of pleasure.
Mme. Wilf. Again we say good night. [To the Comte] Do not fail to advise us so that we may set a date for the concert.
Comte. Oh! Yes, indeed! Delighted… Do you know, it had slipped my mind for the moment?
All go out.
Princess Helena and the Baroness von Rosenberg enter.
Baroness. Whatever happens, I shall not return to the Casino again; responsibility for the future must not rest upon my shoulders. I have had enough of responsibility—yes, and of remorse. I cannot sleep; only by the use of morphine am I able to quiet my nerves, but sleep, innocent sleep, which is the balm of a quiet conscience, has fled from my eyes forever.
Princess Helena. I hope you do not imagine that I enjoy visiting the Casino. It did amuse me for the first few evenings; it was a novelty. I had never seen anything but those horrible functions at the Court of Suavia. I had been entertained, it is true, at one or two casinos at the deadly seaside resorts of our own country, which become more deadly than ever when a member of the Imperial family is present; but now my curiosity has been satisfied. I shall never return to the Casino again.
Baroness. Where else is there to go?
Princess Helena. We shall find some place which is more amusing, or more wicked—which is the same thing. I have always noticed that the places which everybody agrees are wicked, are by far the most amusing. That is the reason I am inclined to believe that hell, which certainly has the worst reputation, must be extremely funny.
Baroness. Your Highness! I am shocked beyond expression. You have absolutely no idea of what you are talking about, and you have not had for some time.
Princess Helena. Not since I made up my mind to say what I thought and do what I pleased. Is that what you wish to convey?
Baroness. Remember what happened to us this evening! A libertine has whispered phrases into my ear, which I had never expected to hear from a man. When he let go my hand, there was a hundred-franc note in it. And he had the impertinence to add: "Fix it up for me with your young friend… a few moments of her time." I thought I should expire on the spot.
Princess Helena. Delicious, was it not? If I had been in your place, I should have accepted the hundred francs and have staked them all on the next deal. I am sure that you would have continued in luck.
Baroness. Highness! Speech fails me. I shall die of mortification. The world is on tiptoe, waiting to see what you are going to do next. They observe us from Suavia; you may depend upon it, we are watched.
Princess Helena. For that reason I am unwilling to appear sad or weary for a single moment.
Baroness. But you are, I can see it, in spite of yourself. Nothing but a quiet conscience
Princess Helena. Why harp so much upon conscience? Mine does not trouble me; it is at peace with all the world. I have no children to prejudice by my behavior, which, after all, is the only consideration which would have made it inexcusable. As for my husband, I have merely repaid him—without great interest—for the insolence and brutality with which he has treated me. I owe the Court of Suavia nothing beyond a life of mortal stagnation which was one continual abdication of my will, a perpetual act of self-suppression. I have struck the balance and settled my account with them all. Now, I am dissatisfied with myself.
Baroness. In what way?
Princess Helena. It is idle to attempt to change ourselves when we continue in the same environment. The past, not the future, governs the world. History, despised history, tyrannizes over the lives of men as of nations. How different life would be if it were possible for us to be born on the day when we can first truly say that our lives are our own, that we belong to ourselves; but we are not even able to say that we are born on the first day of our lives, we have been living for a long time previously, from remote antiquity, in the days that are far off. Life is a forest many centuries old, and our souls are rooted in it like centenarian trees. The wind rustles the branches, and we imagine that we are spreading our wings about to fly, to soar upward into the air and liberty and light.
Baroness. All of which is to say
Princess Helena. All of which is to say that I should have renounced my old life gladly, but absolutely, altogether. Of what use is it to forget who I am, when nobody is willing to forget it around me? Everybody exacts of me the same behavior, and treats me with the same deference as at the Court of Suavia; everybody does, and the worst of all is the very person who of all others has most reason to forget it. When everybody from the man who loves me, for whom I have renounced my rank, my position, without so much as one regret, down to the humblest servant and the shopkeeper who waits upon me to sell me some trinket, and the beggar who follows me down the street, when everybody insists upon reminding me that I am Princess of Suavia, neither in my actions nor in my appearance nor in my expenditures can I cease to be so. The honors which the government of Suavia denies me officially, the world returns to me privately, for its own advantage. It is utterly useless to say: "I am merely a woman, like any other woman, who is in love, who wishes to be happy, to be forgotten, without being responsible for her conduct to anybody." Immediately the world is up in arms: "No, Your Highness! It is impossible! To us you are always the Princess—Princess Helena of Suavia!" The Emperor assured me that I had forfeited popular respect through my foolishness, but I have never been so much respected, nor treated with so much consideration, nor so beprincessed as now. That is why I could not help being pleased when that roué took me for a disreputable woman, and I showed it. For the first time in my life I found out what I really looked like.
Baroness. Have pity on my poor nerves! I never listened to such conversation. Surely you did not imagine that anybody was going to forget who you are? If we did, you would be the last person to thank us for it. Being treated like a princess is not what you object to; it is the difficulty of making both ends meet while you submit to the process.
Princess Helena. It may be so. It is impossible to continue as we are doing now.
Baroness. Although the crisis will be a passing one. The Emperor cannot afford to permit his niece
Princess Helena. When it is a question of spending money, the Emperor cannot afford anything.
Baroness. In that contingency
Princess Helena. I have considered several alternatives, but Herr Rosmer disapproves of all of them. They are incorrect, he says—beneath the dignity of a princess.
Baroness. Undoubtedly, although the impropriety would be merely a matter of form. In the end the Emperor will be obliged to pay. Of that we may be certain.
Princess Helena. I hope so, to avoid an open scandal. The difficulty is that Albert is opposed to scandals. He believes that the Emperor will consent to my divorce, and then we shall be able to return to Suavia and live like princes.
Baroness. I doubt it. The Emperor will never consent that a princess of Imperial blood should suffer divorce.
Princess Helena. And he is perfectly right. All divorce is ridiculous. Besides, it destroys the only certainty which there is to marriage—the certainty that you will never be able to do it again. I no longer give divorce a second thought; it leads nowhere. Suppose I were to marry Herr Rosmer now after all this talk? It would be too much like the table of errata at the end of a book, when you have read the book. It corrects nothing and recalls everything.
Chantel enters.
Baroness. Do you see? That fellow again. Move on. He is capable
Princess Helena. Let us find out of what he is capable. Whatever it is, it will not shock me.
Chantel. Baroness von—von… Pardon if the title escapes my mind.
Baroness. Von Rosenberg.
Chantel. In my confusion, consequent upon my regrettable mistake, I neglected to offer my apologies as a gentleman, to beg pardon of the Baroness and of Her Highness
Baroness. Duchess, if you please. Her Highness is travelling incognito.
Chantel. Pardon. Her Highness will always be Her Highness to me.
Princess Helena. And to everybody else. It makes no matter.
Chantel. I might say in my defense that I approached Your Highness only at the suggestion of the Comte de Tournerelles, as his private secretary. The Comte is somewhat near-sighted. He supposed
Princess Helena. Quite naturally. In this cosmopolis where everybody pretends to be what they are not, it is not surprising that a princess should be taken for a cocotte where there are so many cocottes who are taken for princesses.
Baroness. Did you say the Comte de Tournerelles? Not that Comte who enjoys the reputation for spending money? Why, they call him— I beg your pardon; I forgot that you were his secretary.
Chantel. Not at all; it is no secret. In Paris they dub him the "Little Chocolateer," as the origin of his fortune was in chocolate. His grandfather arrived in Paris without a sou to his name, and established a small factory.
Princess Helena. Needless to add that he came barefoot; it is the legend of all great fortunes.
Chantel. However, after living in Paris twenty years conducting a modest factory, he branched out suddenly into other lines, bought land, and commenced to build houses.
Baroness. All of them dispensing chocolate?
Chantel. Or with it, as the case might be. To-day his grandson is a multimillionaire, and a Comte. He has attracted more attention in Paris, such as it is, over a longer period of years, than any other person still living, except Sarah Bernhardt and Otero. He sets the fashions.
Princess Helena. Including those in Parisian beauties, according to my information. Was not the celebrated Diana de Lys a creation of his?
Chantel. Are you referring to the Comtesse Diana de Lys?
Princess Helena. Ah! So he has also made her Comtesse?
Chantel. She is an extraordinarily intelligent woman, who dominates the Comte by her ability. She is able to do with him whatever she wants, even to the point of marriage, which is exactly what she wants.
Princess Helena. Do you know, this gossip interests me? These people fight, they live
Chantel. They do; and you will find plenty of them here. No doubt Your Highness's life has been rather retired, as unquestionably is better suited to the tastes of Your Highness; it facilitates without attracting attention. Did you ever hear of the Wilf and Wulf Concerts Company?
Princess Helena. What was the name of the company?
Chantel. A most ingenious device for preparing the ground so that one may meet everybody, whatever one may have in mind, all the while apparently in the exclusive pursuit of art—that is to say, Wilf's music. An immense theatre is to be erected—nothing else is mentioned in public. Perhaps Your Highness would be interested to attend a little concert at the Comte's villa? The Comte would deem it a great honor if you would accept his invitation.
Princess Helena. I should be charmed. You said, did you not, that the company would be rather mixed?
Baroness. Highness!
Chantel. Oh! The guests will all be distinguished people. His Highness, Prince Stephen, has promised to be present.
Princess Helena. I am so sorry! I am not on the best of terms with my cousin; I find him entirely too serious.
Baroness. Your Highness! You cannot appear at a function at which Prince Stephen is present. You would be obliged to meet his wife, la Königsberg, a comic-opera singer.
Princess Helena. Of course, in my position I am obliged to be particular. Baroness, you amuse me.
Baroness. Highness, I am deeply grieved; I must positively give you up. You play havoc with my most cherished convictions.
Princess Helena. Nonsense! We left our convictions behind us when we left Suavia. Tell the Comte that I shall be delighted to accept his invitation and to attend his concert.
Baroness. Oh!
Chantel. The Comte will be greatly pleased. I bow, Your Highness… Baroness, a word. A moment with you alone…
Baroness. Sir! Do you intend to offer me another hundred-franc note?
Chantel. No, it is something worth your while this time.
Baroness. Sir!
Chantel. Don't be nervous. I am told that Her Highness is negotiating a loan. She has encountered difficulties, as the sum is considerable.
Princess Helena. Oh, Baroness!
Baroness. Just a minute. How interesting!… So you know, then?
Chantel. The Comte will be glad to oblige Her Highness and to assist the negotiations by any means in his power.
Baroness. No, no! Impossible! I did not know that the Comte was in this business.
Chantel. It is not business. Her Highness's name will be sufficient guarantee. You may say so on behalf of the Comte. I await Her Highness's reply.
Chantel retires.
Princess Helena. What was your secret with the secretary?
Baroness. Most remarkable! I scarcely know what to say. Would you believe it? He asked me to offer you in the name of the Comte whatever you require, without any other guarantee than your reputation, which to him is sufficient.
Princess Helena. Not really? We are saved!
Baroness. Highness! I am amazed. Money offered in this spirit, by a person whom you have not even met
Princess Helena. By a person who knows perfectly well that sooner or later he will have to be repaid. He has sufficient sense and business acumen to realize that his apparent confidence and disinterestedness only place me still more deeply in his debt.
Baroness. Very possibly he has. One must be upon one's guard with these parvenus. How can we tell but that what he really wishes is to compromise your reputation, so as to capitalize it afterward in some discreditable enterprise?
Princess Helena. Quite unlikely. My personal influence is no longer of account, and I am scarcely in a position to betray political or financial secrets. I believe that the Comte is merely anxious to pay handsomely for the luxury of presenting another Highness in his house, at his entertainments, where the tone of society is somewhat mixed. My cousin is certainly not on friendly terms with the Comte for nothing. Prince Stephen's condition must be far worse than mine by this time. He is the person to advise us…
Baroness. The adventure is perilous. This Comte, this Comtesse, that secretary, these musicians, especially now that they are associated with Prince Stephen, and that means, of course, his wife… When all is said and done, the Court of Suavia will overlook your separation from your husband far more readily than it will condone the indecent marriage of Prince Stephen.
Princess Helena. That in itself is sufficient commentary upon the moral status of the Court of Suavia. We have arrived at an impasse at which we cannot afford to be particular. When one rises every day to see the sun shining upon an income which is adequate to one's needs and social position, it is all very well to be fastidious in the choice of one's friends, but morality is like army discipline: it is very different in peace from what it is in time of war. I am fighting now to make my own way in the world. I have only myself to rely upon, and I fight at a disadvantage. Ah! It is easy to rise, to force oneself up from the depths through sheer power of will, through one's unaided efforts, like this Comtesse of whom we have just heard from the secretary. She had no one but herself to consider, there was nothing to stop her. All she had to do was to say to herself, "I want this," and she had it. But to drop down from above, to hide oneself, to disappear, if such a thing were possible, so as to live a new life more personal, more one's own, that is difficult, because it is to the interest of all with whom we come in contact not to permit us to come down, since their social position is dependent upon ours, and they live by our lives, which for that reason were never ours, and it is to their interest to rise. However, you deceive yourself if you imagine that I shall allow myself to be restrained by any such ridiculous scruples.
Baroness. I do not imagine that they will interfere with you in the least. What a place this world would be if other people were to behave as you do! It would become an orgy of wild beasts. If there is no limit to selfishness merely because we wish to be happy
Princess Helena. But there is a limit to happiness—it is the pain which we give to others.
Baroness. And do you mean to say that you have not long since passed that limit? Consider how Their Majesties feel! How does your husband feel? Think of me!
Princess Helena. Absurd! You do not call that unhappiness? It is not my idea of pain. What I have offended is merely vanity, their pride, prejudices of rank, Court etiquette. No human being has shed one real tear because of me. Anger, not sorrow, is the emotion which they feel. One single tear in the eyes of those who love us deserves the sacrifice of all the happiness in the world, but the shrieks and yells of this childish rage, which is neither sorrow, nor love, nor even genuine rage, are not worth the sacrifice of one passing caprice, much less of the happiness which might have been ours in the world.
Prince Stephen and the Comte de Tournerelles enter.
Prince Stephen. If I borrowed of the bank, my friend, it was because the sum was utterly insignificant. I have been playing in abominable luck this evening—although I had a presentiment that my luck was about to change.
Comte. I forgive you upon the understanding that this evening is to be an exception. Any reflection upon my friendship, I could never forgive.
Prince Stephen. My dear Comte, I await a fitting opportunity of demonstrating my appreciation of your generosity and esteem fully.
Comte. Will you be so kind as to present me to your cousin, the Princess Helena? I owe her an explanation and an apology.
Prince Stephen. With pleasure—or, rather, I should do so were I certain of my own reception. My relations with Princess Helena have never been overcordial, as perhaps you know. Under different circumstances, through a coincidence, we encountered opposition at Court at the same time. It seems that the accident aggravated the condition of the Emperor, so that if we were not sympathetic before, our antipathy has since increased rapidly.
Comte. I beg your pardon; I had no idea…
Princess Helena. [To the Baroness] Discussion is useless. My mind is made up. Do as I tell you.
Baroness. Oh, for the heroic soul of my ancestors and the courage to oppose your wishes! Think—think again, for the last time!
Princess Helena. Otherwise I shall speak to him myself.
Baroness. No! Never that! Wait… [To the Prince] Highness!
Prince Stephen. Eh? Ah, yes! My dear Baroness! I am delighted—delighted and surprised. In fact, I scarcely expected—certainly not before the Princess…
Baroness. It was Her Highness who insisted upon my speaking to you.
Prince Stephen. She did? It seems incredible.—If you do not mind… one moment, my dear Comte.
Comte. I retire in Her Highness's favor. Apparently she wishes a word with you.
Prince Stephen. Yes, wait outside. The introduction will be possible very shortly. [The Comte retires] Did you say it was she?… I thought she avoided me.
Baroness. She had the same impression of Your Highness.
Prince Stephen. Of me? How could she? On the contrary… My dear cousin!
Princess Helena. Why, cousin! Really, have you no grudge against me?
Prince Stephen. I thought you were avoiding me.
Princess Helena. A stupid misunderstanding has existed between us. Now we are imited by misfortune. We have both been banished for the same offense—for having dared to declare the independence of our hearts.
Prince Stephen. Although mine was already free.
Princess Helena. Is that a reproach? Mine was bound to a tyrant whom another tyrant had imposed. I consider myself much more heroic than you. You are a Prince and I a Princess, but you had the advantage of being a single man. I had three tyrannies to overcome—my rank as Princess, marriage, and the disability of being a woman. I do not need to tell you what a valiant spirit I had in me.
Prince Stephen. No, indeed. Your marriage was a mistake, an inexplicable caprice of the Emperor's. You must have suffered tortures. But you are happy now, as I am.
Princess Helena. Yes, very happy—as happy as you are. This is life at last, it is liberty, love, and they are well worth all the sacrifices which we have made to enjoy them. For my part, I regard them as negligible, absolutely negligible.
Prince Stephen. So do I, I assure you; although it seems hardly fair to ask those whom we love to endure these privations with us.
Princess Helena. We cannot call ourselves rich. We expect nothing from the Emperor—in fact, I expect less than you do. My debts are already heavy, and my credit is becoming exhausted.
Prince Stephen. Do not tell me.
Princess Helena. It occurred to me, perhaps, that the Comte de Toumerelles… Is he a close friend of yours?
Prince Stephen. Of course; although I should scarcely presume to accept favors of such a nature, in spite of his repeated offers.
Princess Helena. Then you are making a great mistake; everybody is convinced that you do. Nobody puts any other interpretation upon your intimacy.
Prince Stephen. The explanation is very simple. I should be intolerably selfish if I were to attempt to isolate poor Elsa altogether, yet what society is open to us now? In this democracy of money and vice, which are the two great democratizers, the only possible selection lies among those whose money and vices are relieved by some touch of imagination, some suggestion of art. The Comte is one of these. Besides, he is a thoroughly fine fellow, large-hearted, incapable by nature of the slightest indelicacy.
Princess Helena. Then you believe that he is a person who can be relied upon thoroughly?
Prince Stephen. Beyond question.
Princess Helena. Naturally you are in a position to know. The Comte is anxious to meet me. I trust that you will accommodate him at the very first opportunity.
Prince Stephen. At once. It will be a great pleasure to him. He tells me that he owes you an explanation.
Princess Helena. It is wholly unnecessary. I shall be enchanted to meet him.
Prince Stephen. Perhaps he is not far away. [Prince Stephen goes out.
Baroness. Your Highness! Your Highness! We totter upon the verge of a precipice; I feel very much as I should if I were to discover you looping the loop. My reason will be unable to support these terrible blows. Who is this? Herr Rosmer… Another calamity! He could not have appeared at a worse time. When he learns that you have spoken to your cousin, that he has promised to present the Comte de Tournerelles
Princess Helena. He will be shocked, which is the best thing that he does. Let me know when my cousin arrives with the Comte.
The Baroness retires. Herr Albert Rosmer enters.
Princess Helena. Oh, Albert! Where have you been? You have played and lost! Will you never learn that a man cannot be lucky at everything? Well, what are you going to do? Smile, or wait for your luck to change to look pleasant?
Albert. I have not been playing to-night. I should never play, if I had my way, nor should we come to the Casino. We should not remain another day in this place.
Princess Helena. Yes, I know your love-idyl: our hearts and a cabin. Unhappy the woman who is lured into that dream! I still remember the week we spent in the country together, without seeing a soul, without another person to speak to, alone with our immense love. Who tired of it first?
Albert. It irritated me to see how bored you were.
Princess Helena. And I suppose it bored me to see you having such a good time? What is the use of this pretense? We were both bored horribly. Love is a beautiful thing, no doubt it is the most beautiful thing in the world, but it is like the sun—beautiful because it shines on so much that is lovely and beautiful, which appears more fascinating in its light; the light itself is not beautiful. I hope and pray that our love may always be surrounded by all the lovely and beautiful things in the world.
Albert. Yes, I seem to have noticed it. What you want is to be happy, eternally happy. Your idea of love is having nothing serious to think about.
Princess Helena. If I had thought seriously enough to satisfy your ideas, we should never have loved each other, nor should we be living together now. I adore happiness above everything else in the world; I have no intention of saddening my life by resignation, nor of renouncing your love, nor of doing penance, either, because I am yours and I love you so. Was it my duty to sit still and submit to having my life regulated by an Emperor and a Court which represent nothing but tradition and antiquity, in which the voices of the dead have more influence than the wishes of the living? No, I had a heart, I had a soul, I had my life to live, which was not that life, and it was my duty to fight, to rebel. Life is either accepting the conditions and environment in which we find ourselves, without protest, without rebellion, and living on peacefully and quietly, resigned to our fate, as if we were already dead—and in that case it is just as well to have all the virtues about us like statues on a monument—or otherwise it is protest, it is struggle, rebellion against the world, and there is but one virtue in a rebel, which is courage; the others, no matter how impressive their names, are nothing but ghosts of cowardice and fear—which are all that prevent us from running to meet happiness with a light heart, when happiness calls to us in our lives in the name of love.
Albert. Suppose happiness calls to you some day in your life in the name of love, and the voice is not my voice? You would not hesitate, of course?
Princess Helena. Why do you say that? You have no reason to doubt my love.
Albert. Probably I have no reason to doubt it because you fancy that you have sacrificed so much for my sake.
Princess Helena. It was no sacrifice for me to give up a life which I loathed and despised.
Albert. If it was no sacrifice, and you loathed and despised it so utterly, how am I to know but that the desire to escape from it may not have influenced you more than my love? Without your being conscious of it, I may have represented this new life in your eyes, a fresh environment, and this liberty upon which you plume yourself, forgetting who you are and the respect which you owe to your rank as Princess.
Princess Helena. Oh! What is the use of talking? Now you are finding fault with me; it has become a habit. I might very well doubt your love, since you should have warned me before that I was forgetting who I was and what I owed to myself as Princess, and not now when it is too late, if all that you saw in me was Princess Helena of Suavia.
Albert. You have no right to say such things; you misjudge me. What I wish is to see you respected, to feel that your conduct is becoming your rank and position. I am not willing to have people think that a craving for low, promiscuous adventure threw us together, when it was love. Besides, I am afraid that you will be disillusioned yourself when you are brought face to face with the very matter-of-fact hardships to which we shall presently be exposed, which will appear intolerable to you. I do not wish you to have stooped so low when that time comes, that it will be impossible to recover the position which you renounced for love of me, as I hope and believe—for love of me entirely. Yes, is it not true, my Princess Bebé, born into a world into which of all others you should never have been born, to become the terror of the Court of Suavia, like a great, unruly boy in the midst of a den of musty antiquaries, who laughs at them and rifles their hoary parchments and diplomas, and overturns their ancient cabinets which are covered with dust?
Princess Helena. Yes, it is so lovely to rebel! It was in heaven, next to God. There was a rebel angel, even there, who for mere love of it, exchanged heaven for hell.
Albert. Exactly, for hell. Now you have said it. Perhaps you will be mourning your lost paradise some day.
Princess Helena. It will only be because I have not found what I sought. Through whose fault, I wonder? But I shall not turn back, I promise you, come what will!
Albert. Then you will love me forever?
Princess Helena. If your love is the love I have hoped to find in the world.
Albert. What do you mean?
Princess Helena. I have already told you that I shall never turn back.
Albert. Do you realize our situation? Look at these letters.
Princess Helena. Bills of course, creditors, the bankers close their vaults, a few lines of friendly advice… I knew it, I expected it.
Albert. Hitherto you have merely renounced the disadvantages of your rank. Will you be equal also to renouncing its advantages?
Princess Helena. No, I shall renounce nothing. I shall fight for our love. We need money and I intend to get it. My cousin, Prince Stephen, has promised to present the Comte de Tournerelles.
Albert. Have you been talking with your cousin? Will you permit him to present the Comte de Tournerelles? Do you realize what that implies socially? You will be obliged to recognize the Prince's wife and the Comte's mistress, yes, and their whole circle of fortune-hunters and adventurers. No, no, it is out of the question. We are observed from the Court of Suavia. If our conduct is correct as befits our station, the Emperor may relent, but if we receive these people
Princess Helena. Why not acknowledge at once that all your hopes are based upon the Emperor's consent to my divorce, so that I shall again become Princess of Suavia, and then you will be Prince Consort at my side? Is that it? Do you flatter yourself that any amount of good behavior, or the enduring of a thousand privations, will gain us the favor of the Emperor? How silly! No, there is only one course to pursue: the Emperor will never yield except before a scandal, or when the outcry of my creditors threatens to make him ridiculous.
Albert. Are you serious about accepting money from the Comte de Tournerelles? Do you realize what that involves? Are you crazy? Do you know to what you will be committing yourself, what he will undoubtedly think, what he will have the impudence to expect of you?
Princess Helena. Nothing of the sort! He neither thinks nor expects anything. He merely believes that he is coming off very cheaply, entertaining a Princess in his house at a clever bargain.
Albert. Have you considered the persons you will be obliged to meet in his house?
Princess Helena. Yes, I have; I can imagine who they will be. Men and women with passions, with vices, with interests and necessities, with flesh and blood and nerves—people who live, who struggle and fight for their lives, who love, hate, intrigue; people who are like everybody else, just the same as you and I. Why this insane desire to shut ourselves off from each other, to ticket and classify ourselves, to create distinctions between us, and fancy that we are superior to our fellows, when we are all equal and all belong to the same race, the poor, despised human race, which spends all its time dividing itself and hating itself and marking itself off into classes and castes and individuals, when all the sympathy and all the love in our hearts which might bind us together would be too little even then among so many to alleviate the sorrows of life?
The Baroness enters.
Baroness. Oh, Your Highness!… His Highness and the Comte!… Herr Rosmer, has she told you? Have you influence to prevent it? I have letters from Suavia this very day; they know, they exaggerate. They hear that we are leading lives of degradation and shame, abandoned to play—a perpetual orgy of depravity. Would you believe it? They even say that I have a lover! Only a supreme effort sustains my shattered nerves.
Albert. Further struggle is useless. Her Highness will never be influenced by any suggestion which may be tainted with sense.
Prince Stephen, the Comte, Elsa, and Diana enter.
Prince Stephen. Cousin, may I present the Comte de Tournerelles? [The Comte advances.
Comte. Highness! I owe you an apology for a most regrettable mistake.
Elsa. Stephen! [Stopping short, astonished. Then to Diana] Princess Helena? Impossible! Only yesterday he swore that he would never speak to her again. This will reach the ears of the Emperor,
Princess Helena. I should like you to meet Herr Albert Rosmer—if you have no objection?
Prince Stephen. To what? In fact, we have met before. I remember him very well.
Princess Helena. Albert, Prince Stephen wishes to speak with you.
Albert. Highness!
Prince Stephen. I have frequently had the pleasure in Suavia.
Princess Helena. Now present me to your wife. Do you hesitate? You have scruples
Prince Stephen. No, indeed, I assure you.
Princess Helena. Oh, then she is the one who has scruples? Is she as jealous of her dignity and importance as Herr Rosmer? How amusing! We renounce our rank because of them, and then they oblige us with an imitation of it.
Prince Stephen. It is amusing—very. Elsa…
Elsa. What are you doing with Princess Helena? I hope you do not expect me to speak to her.
Albert. [To Helena] Why did you force me to recognize the Prince?
Prince Stephen. How perfectly absurd! She is my cousin; besides, we are travelling.
Elsa. She is with her paramour. A married woman!
Albert. I should not have objected if he had been alone, but his wife is with him. A comic-opera singer!
Princess Helena. Oh, this is too much! What foolishness! I shall put an end to this nonsense at once. Comte, will you present me to… ah, yes! to your fiancée, the Comtesse Diana de Lys?
Comte. Ah! Delighted! Diana
Diana. Highness! This is a great honor. It is a tremendous satisfaction to me.
Albert. What are we coming to, Baroness?
Baroness. Bromides have lost their effect. I shall be obliged to get drunk or take morphine—which is a polite method of getting drunk.
Princess Helena. I am anticipating your concert with great pleasure.
Diana. Are you really coming? Oh, Highness! It is so good of you!
Comte. The honor will be unprecedented for us both.
Princess Helena. Do present me to my cousin's wife, if you will be so kind. Apparently he is afraid. They are disputing warmly.
Comte. Oh, no! You must be mistaken, I am sure. My dear, Princess Helena desires to meet you.
Prince Stephen. What did I tell you? I could not help myself.
Elsa. Highness!
Princess Helena. Don't call me Highness; my name is Helena. Why did you object to meeting me?
Elsa. I? Who told you so?
Princess Helena. Oh, I did not mind! We are going to become very fond of each other.
Elsa. Possibly. Pardon, I was speaking with the Comtesse…
Princess Helena. Stephen, look at Herr Rosmer and your wife. They are disgusted; it mortifies them to see us such good friends. They are afraid that we may forget ourselves and commit some blunder, or fail in etiquette.
Prince Stephen. I believe you are right.
Princess Helena. They deserve—well, they do deserve it.
Prince Stephen. What?
Princess Helena. Nothing! Was it worth while to defy the world and to revolutionize our hearts just for this? They deserve to have us remember who we are, since they are not able to forget it.
Curtain