Scene I

THE SORROWS OF BELGIUM

CHARACTERS:

Count Clairmont.
Emil Grelieu—A Famous Belgian Author.
Jeanne—His Wife.
Pierre   } Their sons.
Maurice}
Lagard—Member of the Cabinet.
General—Adjutant to Count Clairmont.
Insane Girl.
Fran�ois—Gardener.
Henrietta } Grelieu's Servants.
Silvina    }
Commander of the German Armies in Belgium.
Von Blumenfeld.
Von Ritzau  }
Von Stein    } Officers.
Von Schauss}
Kloetz—Military Engineer.
Zigler—Telegraphist.
Greitzer.
German Officer.
Belgian Peasant.
Doctor Langloi.
A Chauffeur—A Belgian.

Chapter SCENE I

The action takes place in Belgium, at the beginning of the war of 1914. The scene represents a garden near the villa of the famous Belgian author, Emil Grelieu. Beyond the tops of low trees, beyond the stone fence which divides Grelieu's estate from the neighboring gardens, are seen the outlines of the red roofs of the houses in the small town, of the Town Hall, and of an ancient church. There the people already know about the war; there the church bells are ringing uneasily, while in the garden there is still peace. A small, splendidly kept flower garden; beautiful and fragrant flowers; shrubbery in bloom; a nook of a hothouse. The glass covers are half open. The sun is shining softly; there is in the air the bluish mist of a warm and quiet day, and all colors seem tenderly soft; only in the foreground the colors of the flowers stand out in sharp relief.

Fran�ois is sitting and clipping roses at one of the flower beds. He is an old and deaf, stern Belgian, with long, gray hair. He holds in his mouth an earthen pipe. Fran�ois is working. He does not hear the tolling of the bells. He is alone in the garden, and it seems to him that all is calm and quiet.

But something fills him with faint alarm. He hears an indistinct call. He looks around—but sees no one. He hums to himself a song without words. Suddenly he stops, straightens himself, holding the scissors in his hands, and looks around again.

FRAN�OIS

Who has called me?

He sees no one. He looks at the hothouse—it seems to him that some one is calling him from there.

I hear you, Monsieur Emil, I am here.

He sees no one. He frowns and cries angrily.

Who is calling me? No one here.

He looks at the sky, then at the flowers, and resumes his work quietly.

They say I am deaf. But I heard some one calling me twice: "Fran�ois!" "Fran�ois!" No, perhaps it is my blood, making a noise in my ears.

Silence. But his uneasiness does not subside; he listens again.

I can still hear some one calling me: "Fran�ois!"

Very well; here is Fran�ois, and if anyone needs me he may call me again. I shall not run. I can't hear the chirping of the birds; the birds have long since become silent for me. What nonsense—these birds! Very well, I am deaf—does anyone think I am going to cry over it?

Twitches his mouth into a smile.

And my eyes? That is another matter. My eyes! Why are you forever silent, Fran�ois? Why should I speak if I do not hear your foolish answer? It is all nonsense—to talk and to listen. I can see more than you can hear.

Laughs.

Yes, I see this. This does not talk either, but bend down to it and you will learn more than Solomon ever knew. That is what the Bible says—Solomon. To you the earth is noise and prattle, while to me it is like a Madonna in colors upon a picture. Like a Madonna in colors.

The bell is ringing. In the distance a youthful voice calls "Papa!" "Papa!" Then, "Fran�ois!" Maurice, Emil Grelieu's younger son, a youth of about 17, appears, coming quickly from the house. He calls Fran�ois once more, but Fran�ois does not hear. Finally he shouts right next to his ear.

MAURICE

Fran�ois, what is the matter with you? I am calling you. I am calling you. Haven't you seen papa?

FRAN�OIS

Calmly, without turning around.

Did you call me, Maurice? I heard your call long ago.

MAURICE

You heard me, but did not respond. How obstinate you are! Haven't you seen papa? I am looking for him everywhere. Quick! Where is papa?

FRAN�OIS

Papa?

MAURICE

Shouts.

Where is papa? Haven't you seen him? Silvina says he went to the hothouse. Do you hear?

FRAN�OIS

He is not there. I spoke to Monsieur this morning, but since then I have not seen him. No.

MAURICE

What is to be done? How they are tolling! Fran�ois, what is to be done—do you hear them tolling?

FRAN�OIS

Ah! I hear. Will you take some roses, my boy?

MAURICE

You don't understand anything—you are beyond endurance! They are running in the streets, they are all running there, and papa is not here. I will run over there, too, at once. Perhaps he is there. What a day!

FRAN�OIS

Who is running?

MAURICE

You don't understand anything!

Shouts.

They have entered Belgium!

FRAN�OIS

Who has entered Belgium?

MAURICE

They—the Prussians. Can't you understand? It's war! War! Imagine what will happen. Pierre will have to go, and so will I go. I will not stay here under any circumstances.

FRAN�OIS

Straightening himself, dropping the scissors.

War? What nonsense, my boy! Who has entered Belgium?

MAURICE

They—the Prussians. Pierre will go now, and I will go—I will not stay away under any circumstances, understand? What will become of Belgium now?—it is hard to conceive it. They entered Belgium yesterday—do you understand—what scoundrels!

In the distance, along the narrow streets of the town, an uneasy sound of footsteps and wheels is growing rapidly. Distinct voices and outcries blend into a dull, suppressed, ominous noise, full of alarm. The tolling, as though tired, now subsides, now turns almost to a shriek. Fran�ois tries vainly to hear something. Then he takes up the scissors again angrily.

MAURICE

Fran�ois!

FRAN�OIS

Sternly.

That's all nonsense! What are you prating, my boy? There is no war—that is impossible.

MAURICE

You are a foolish old man, yourself! They have entered Belgium—do you understand—they are here already.

FRAN�OIS

That's not true.

MAURICE

Why isn't it true?

FRAN�OIS

Because that is impossible. The newspapers print nonsense, and they have all gone mad. Fools, and nothing more—madmen. What Prussians? Young man, you have no right to make sport of me like this.

MAURICE

But listen—

FRAN�OIS

Prussians! What Prussians? I don't know any Prussians, and I don't want to know them.

MAURICE

But understand, old man, they are already bombarding Li�ge!

FRAN�OIS

No!

MAURICE

They have killed many people. What a strange man you are! Don't you hear the tolling of the bells? The people are on the square. They are all running. The women are crying. What is that?

FRAN�OIS

Angrily.

You are stepping on the flower bed. Get off!

MAURICE

Don't bother me! Why are they shouting so loudly? Something has happened there.

The sound of a trumpet is heard in the distance. The shouting of the crowd is growing ever louder. Sounds of the Belgian hymn are heard faintly. Suddenly an ominous silence follows the noise, and then the lone sound of the tolling bells.

MAURICE

Now they are quiet.... What does it mean?

FRAN�OIS

Nonsense, nonsense!

Infuriated.

You are stepping on the flower bed again. Get off! You have all lost your reason! Go, go! The Prussians!...

MAURICE

You have lost your reason!

FRAN�OIS

I am seventy years old, and you tell me about the Prussians. Go!

Again the shouting of the crowd is heard. Silvina, the chambermaid, runs out of the house and calls: "Monsieur Maurice!"

SILVINA

Please, come into the house. Madame Jeanne is calling you. Madame is going away. Please, come.

MAURICE

And papa?

SILVINA

He isn't here yet. Come!

Both move away. Fran�ois sits down at the flower bed impatiently.

MAURICE

You don't understand, Silvina. He does not believe that there is a war.

SILVINA

It is very dreadful, Monsieur Maurice. I am afraid—

They go out. Fran�ois looks after them angrily, adjusts his apron, and prepares to resume his work.

FRAN�OIS

Madmen! I am seventy years old. I am seventy years old, and they want me to believe a story about Prussians. Nonsense, they are crazy! Prussians! But it is true that I don't hear anything.

Rising, he listens attentively.

No, not a sound. Or do I hear something? Oh, the devil take it! I can't hear a sound. Impossible! No, no, impossible! But what is that? How could I believe that in this calm sky—in this calm sky—

The din of battle is growing. Fran�ois listens again and hears it. He grows thoughtful. His eyes express fright. He looks as though he had suddenly solved a terrible problem. He moves to and fro, his head bent down, as though trying to catch the sounds. Suddenly he throws down the scissors. He is seized with a feeling of terror. He raises his hands.

I hear it. No. No. Now I don't hear a sound. Oh, God, give me the power to hear!

He tries again to catch the fleeting sounds, his head bent, his neck outstretched. His hair is disheveled. His eyes stare. Suddenly, by a great effort, he hears the tolling of the bells and voices full of despair. He retreats and raises his hands again.

My God! They are tolling! They are crying! War! What war? What war? Eh, who is there—who is shouting "War!"?

The sound of the bells and the cries grows louder. Emil Grelieu appears, walking quickly in the alley.

EMIL GRELIEU

What are you shouting, Fran�ois? Where is Maurice? No one is in the house.

FRAN�OIS

Is it war?

EMIL GRELIEU

Yes, yes, it is war. The Prussians have entered Belgium. But you don't hear anything.

FRAN�OIS

Painfully trying to catch the sounds.

I hear, I hear; are they killing?

EMIL GRELIEU

Yes, they are killing. The Prussians have entered Belgium. Where is Maurice?

FRAN�OIS

But, Monsieur Emil—but, Monsieur, what Prussians? Pardon me; I am seventy years old, and I lost my sense of hearing long ago.

Weeps.

Is it really a war?

EMIL GRELIEU

Yes, it is a real war. I can't understand it either. But the fighting has already commenced. I can't realize it myself, but it is war, old man.

FRAN�OIS

Tell me, Monsieur. Tell me about it. I believe you as I believe God. Tell me. I can hear you. Are they killing?

EMIL GRELIEU

It is war! What horror, Fran�ois. It is very hard to understand it—yes, very hard.

Frowns and rubs his high, pale forehead nervously.

FRAN�OIS

Bent, weeps, his head shaking.

And the flowers? Our flowers?

EMIL GRELIEU

Absentmindedly.

Our flowers? Don't cry, Fran�ois—ah, what is that?

The tolling of the bells subsides. The crying and the shouting of the crowd changes, into a harmonious volume of sound—somebody is hailed in the distance. An important announcement seems to have been made there.

EMIL GRELIEU

Absentmindedly.

Our people are expecting the King there—he is on his way to Li�ge! Yes, yes—

Silence. Suddenly there is a sound like the crash of thunder. Then it changes into a song—the crowd is singing the Belgian hymn.

Curtain