FR. Henri, pray speak.

HOST. He found him with his wife and he has
killed him.

HENRI. 'Tis not true !

HOST. You need fear, naught more now ; now
you can shout it out to all the world. I could have
told you an hour past, that she was the Duke's
mistress. By God, I was nigh telling you — is''t not
true, you, Shrieking Pumice-stone P — did we not
know it?

HENRI. Who has seen her ? Where has she been
seen ?

HOST. What matters that to you now ? The
man's mad . . . you have killed him ; of a truth you
cannot do more.

FR. In heaven's name, is't really true or not ?

HOST. Ay, it is true. „ , ,

GR ASSET. Henri, from henceforth you must be my V
friend. Vive la Liberte ! — Vive la Liberte !

FR. Henri, speak, man !

HENRI. She was his mistress ? She was the mistress
of the Duke ? I knew it not ... he lives ... he
lives . . . (Tremendous sensation,)




SEV. {to the others). Well, where's the truth now ? \
ALBiN. My God ! "^



y

My

55



THE GREEN COCKATOO

The DUKE forces his way through the
crowd on the steps,

s^v. (who sees himjirst). The Duke !

SOME VOICES. The Duke !

DUKE. Well, well, what is it ?

HOST. Is it a ghost ?

DUKE. Not that I know of. Let me through !

ROLLiN. What won^t we wager that it is all
arranged ! The fellows yonder belong to Prosper's
troupe. Bravo, Prosper ! This is a real success.

DUKE. What is it ? Is the playing still going on
here, while outside . . . but don't -you iknow what
planner of things are taking place outside ? I have
seen Delaunay's head carried past on a pole. Nay,
why do you look at me like that? {Steps dozvn.)

Henri

i FR. Guard yourself from Henri.

HENRI rushes like a madman on the duke
and plunges a sword into his necJc.

COMM. (stands up). This goes too far !

ALL. He bleeds !

ROLLIN. A murder has been done here.

SEV. TTie Duke is dying.

MARQUIS. I am distracted, dear Severine, to think
that to-day of all days I should have brought you
to this place.

SEv. Why not ? (hi a strained tone) It is a won-
derful success. One does not see a real duke really
murdered every day.

ROLLIN. I cannot grasp it yet.
5Q



THE GREEN COCICATOO

COMM. Silence ! Let no one leave the place !

GRASSET, What does he want ?

COMM. I arrest this man in the name of the law. |

GRASSET {laughs). It is we who make the laws, you I /
blockheads ! Out with the rabble ! He who kills a I
duke is a friend of the people. Vive la Liberte ! J

ALBiN (draws his sword). Make way ! Follow me,
my friends !

i.EOCADiE ricshes in over the steps,

VOICES. His wife !

LJ^ocADFE. Let me in here. I want my husband !
(She comes to the fr^ont,, sees^ and shrieks mit,) Who
has done this ? Henri !

HENRI looks at her.

LEOCADiE. Why have you done this ?

HENRI. Why ? '^

LEOCADIE. I know why. Because of me. Nay, nay,
say not 'twas because of me. Never in all my life

have I been worth that. r~* ^ "^ "^

__^GRAssET {begins a speech),] Citizens of Paris, we
will ceTelSrate our victory. Chance has led us on
our way through the streets of Paris to^ this amiable
host. It could not have fitted in more prettily
Nowhere can the cry " Vive la Liberte ! '' ring sweetei

than over the corpse of a duke,t _ ^

^^^. — ¥OTrEi?. Vfve la Liberte ! Vive la Liberte !

FR. I think we might go. The people have gouQ
mad. Let us go.

ALBIN. Shall we leave the corpse here ?

sEv. Vive la Liberte ! Vive la Liberte !




V^







THE GREEN COCKATOO

MARQUIS. Are you mad ?

CITIZENS and actors. Vive la Liberie ! Vive la
L^jctdi"-'— '"-^'^ — "~ "^ ' "" "

SEV. (leading the nobles to the exit), ^RcJlin^^jjiait^
you to-night outside my window. I will throw the
key down like t'other night. We will pass a pretty
hour— I feel cjiiite pleasurablj excited^___.- —

SHOUTS. Vive la Liberte ! Vive Henri ! Vive
Henri !

LEURKT. Look at the fellows — they are running
away from us.

GRASSET. Let them for to-night — let them ; they
will not escape us.

CURTAIN



58



THE MATE

A PLAY IN ONE ACT



CHARACTERS

Peofessor Robert Pilqeam,
Doctor Alfred Hausmann.
Professor Werkmann.
Professor Brand.
Olga Merholm.
A Servant.

The Seethe takes place in a summer reso-rt not far from Viemia,
Time : an Autumn Eeening^



THE MATE

An artistic room. Wall-paper and furniture in light
tones^ mostly blue, A ladi/s escritoire on the Left
in front ; piano on the Right, On tJie Right a
door^ on the Left a door. In the background a
large open door tvhich leads on to the balcony,
A vieiv onto the landscape ; a street zvith a
gradual incline extending a long distance^ eventu-
ally shid off from viexv by a churchyard xvalL
The wall is riot high ; gravestones and crosses
can be seen. Far away in the distance mountains
in a haze^ not veiy high. It is late in the
evenings nearly nighty the country is plunged in
darkness^ pale moonlight in the lonely streets,
ROBERT comes Old of the room on the Rights lead-
ing in tzco gentlemen^ professor werkmann and

PROFESSOR BRAND.

ROBERT. I'm afraid it's very dark here, gentlemen :
ril fetch a light.

WERKMANN. Thank you, my good friend, we can
manage to find our way quite well.

ROB. Just one minute. {Exit.)

WERKMANN aud BRAND staud alouc in the
da7'kness.

61



THE MATE

wEiiK. He is very self-possessed.

BRAND. It's all pose.

WERK. When a man is burying his wife, he doesn't
go in for any poses. You take it from me ; Fve been
through it all. What would be the point of it ?

BRAND. You don't know what Pilgram is like.
It's tremendously effective, don't you see, to bury
one's wife in the afternoon and then go and debate
scientific subjects for two hours on end in the
evening. You see — you were taken in by it as well.

WKRK. All the same, one must be a thorough



man-



BRAND. Or a thorough-



Enter robert xvith a candlestick^ in xohich
ttoo candles are burning,

ROB. Here I am, gentlemen. {The room is
only half illuminated,)

WERK. Where are we, then ?

ROB. It was my poor wife's room. Those little
steps lead straight to the garden gate, and in five
minutes you will be at the station.

BRAND. We shall be in time, then, for the nine
o'clock train ?

ROB. Of course.

The door on the Right opens, the servant
enters. He has a wreath in his hand,

BOB. What is it ?

SERVANT. Some one from the town has just been
here and left this wreath.

62



THE MATE

ROB. Just now ?

wEiiK. Probably one of your friends who learnt the
news too late. You'll see, you'll get some more of
these melancholy offerings to-morrow. Yes, yes— I
know all about it, unfortunately.

iioB. {ha,s read the inscription on the ribbon).
From my assistant; {explaining) he's still on the
north coast.

BRAND. So Dr. Ilausmann is on the north
coast !

SERV. Where shall I put the wreath, sir ?

WERK. The flowers have a shockingly strong
scent.

BRAND. Of course they have. They are tuberoses.

ROB. Yes, and lilacs. (7b the servant) On
the balcony.

I The SERVANT does as he is ordered^ then

exit,

WERK. Your assistant is still on his holiday ?

ROB. He'll be back soon, anyway. Probably
by to-morrow.

WERK. I suppose you will let him take your place
at the beirinnintj of the term.

ROB. Not a bit of it ! I have not the slightest
intention of making a break in my work.

WERK. (shaking his hand). Quite right, my dear
friend ; work is the only consolation.

ROB. There's this point as well. Even supposing
it wasn't a consolation, it is very questionable if we
should be justified in throwing a portion of our

63



THE MATE

short existence clean away. Once we have had the
calamity to survive most of what

Eait rcith them, letting them gojirst.

WERK. {to brand). He never loved his wife.
BRAND. Well, never mind.

All exeunt on the Right ; stage empty for
a few minutes, olga enters on the Left ;
she is in a dark evening dress without a
hat, with a light fur ivrap throxvn
over her, servant comes in from the
balcony.

SERV. Good evening, madam.

olga. I suppose the Professor is in the garden ?

sERv. The Professor has two gentlemen

OLGA makes a sign to the servant, as
ROBERT comes in on the Left without
noticing her,

ROB. {going to the escritoire), I say, Franz, do you
know the exact time the last train from town gets
here ?

sERv. At ten o'clock, sir.

ROB. I see. {Pause,) It's possible that Dr. Haus-
mann will get here to-night. In that case I want
you to show him in immediately.

SERV. Here ?

ROB. Yes, here, if I happen to be in this room.

Exit SERVANT, and Robert 6*it? dozen at the
escritoire and begins to open it.
64



THE MATE

OLGA {going behind him,) Good evening.

EOB. {coldly). Olga ! {He stands up,)

OLGA {in an embarrassment,, zchich she strains every
nerve to master^ succeeding for isolated moments). IVe
never had a chance the whole day of pressing your
hand.

ROB. Quite true ! We've scarcely exchanged a
single word. I thank you. {Holds out his hand,)

OLGA. You have many friends — to-day proved it.

ROB. Yes, the last two have only just gone.

OLGA. Who was here so late, then ?

ROB. Brand, and that snivelling windbag Werk-
mann. He's fatuously proud of the fact that he lost
his own wife last year. That's the real truth. He
talks about these matters like an expert, the disgust-
ing fellow {Pause,) But to think of your leaving

your villa so late !

OLGA. Do you think I am frightened of taking
the path across the fields alone ?

ROB. No ; but your husband will be uneasy.

OLGA. Oh, no ! He quite believes that I am
already asleep in my room. Besides, I very often
go for a walk in the garden late in the evening — you
ought to know that.

ROB. In our avenue, you mean ?

OLGA. Our ? You mean the one along the

trellis ?

ROB. Yes; I always think of it as only for you
and me.

OLGA. I often wander about in it, all alone.

ROB. But not at night ?
F 65



THE MATE

OLGA. In the evenings. It is most beautiful then.

ROB. Your garden has something very peaceful
about it.

OLGa. Yes, hasn't it.? {sincerely). Anyway, you
must soon come and see us. You'll feel much better
with us — than you do here.

ROB. That's quite possible. {He look's at her^ and
then turns toivards the hack,) You see, that leads
outside, (oLGA nods),

ROB. It's hard to believe that it happened only a
few hours ago. Can you bring yourself to realise
that this same dark path was once bathed in sunlight ?
{Pause,) When I close my eyes — I suddenly see the
sun again. Strange ! I even hear the rumble of the
carriages. {Pause, He is very nervous and distrait
in his manner,) You are quite right, there werq
an awful lot of people there. When one thinks that
everybody came from town — it's really quite a
journey. Have you seen the wreath from my pupils ?

OLGA. Of course !

ROB. Magnificent, isn't it ? And all that sympathy !
Some of my colleagues have even broken up their
holiday in order to come ; it is really extraordinarily
— what's the word — " considerate," isn't it ?

OLGA. It's perfectly natural.

ROB. I daresay it is ; but I ask myself if all my
grief really deserves this sympathy or this expression
of sympathy.

OLGA {almost shocked). How can you say that ?

ROB. Because I myself feel so little. I only know
that she is dead — but I realise this with such awful



THE MATE

clearness that it tortures me — everything is as cold
and clear as the air on a winter day,

OLGA. It won't remain so. The pain will come,
and that will be much better.

ROB. Who knows if it will come — it is too long ago.

OLGA {frigidly). Too long ago ! — what is too
long ago ?

ROB. Since she — lived for me — since we lived for
each other.

oixiA. Yes, that's usually the case in most mar-
riages. {She goes to the balcony and holes at the
zvreath,)

ROB, It arrived late this evening — from Doctor
Hausmann.

OLGA. Oh ! {She looks at the inscription on the
ribbon, robert looks at olga ; she notices it,) He isn't
here yet ?

ROB. No ! But I telegraphed to him at once at
Scheveningen, and I regard it as quite on the cards
that he'll still arrive to-night. If, when he gets to
Vienna, he drives across from one station to the
other

OLGA. He'll be sure to do that.

ROB. In that case he will be here in an hour.

OLGA {with forced confidence). What a great shock
it must have been to him.

ROB. No doubt. {Pause ; quietly). Be frank with
me, Olga, There must be some reason at the bottom
of your coming here again ; I can see it in your
manner. Just tell me quite simply what it is.

OLGA. It is harder than I thought,

a7



THE MATE

BOB. {impatiently^ but with great mastery over him-
self). Well, then?

OLGA. I came to ask a favour of you.

ROB. If I can do it.

OLGA. Quite easily. It's about some letters which
I wrote to poor Eveline, and which I should like to
have back.

BOB. Why in such a hurry ?

OLGA. I thought that when everything was all
over, the first thing that you would do, would of
course be

BOB. What ?

OLGA {pointing to the escritoire). What you were
on the point of doing when I came in. {In a mollifying
tone) I would do the same thing if anyone whom I
loved had died.

BOB. {with nervous excitemerit), "Loved" — "loved."

OLGA. Well, say who was very dear to me — it's
just a way of recalling a person. {She speaks the
folloioing lines like a passage she has learnt by heart,)
But it might have chanced that just my letters
would fall into your hands first — it was to prevent
that that I came here to-night. Those letters
contain things which you must not read under any
circumstances — things which were only intended for
another woman — especially certain letters which I
wrote two or three years ago.

BOB. Where are they, then ? Perhaps you know
where they can be found.

OLGA. I'll find them at once, if you will allow

me

68



THE MATE



ROB. Are you going to ?

OLGA. I think that's the simplest way, as I know
where they are. But you can open the drawer and
I will tell you exactly

EOB. It is not necessary : here is the key.

OLGA. Thank you. But you mustn't think me in
any way disingenuous over all this.

ROB. Why ? Why should I ?

OLGA. Sometime I'll tell you the whole thing — I
mean what up to the present only Eveline knew —
even at the risk of your losing your regard for me.
But you must not learn it by accident — like this.

ROB. I shall never lose my regard for you.

OLGA. Who knows? You always thought too
highly of me.

ROB. I don't think, anyway, that I could learn
anything new about you from those letters. I'm
sure it's not your own secrets you want to preserve.

OLGA (shrewdly). Whose should they be, then ?

ROB. Somebody else's secrets, I should think.

OLGA. What are you thinking about ? Eveline
had no secrets from you.

ROB. I ask no questions — take your letters.

OLGA (unlocks the escritoire^ looks in the drawer).
Here they are. Yes. {She takes out a little packet tied
together with a blu^e ribbon^ holding it in such a way
that ROBERT cannot see it^ and finally conceals it^ but
not too palpably^ under her icrap,) Thank you very
much. Now I must go. Good-bye. (She gets up
to go.)

ROB. Wouldn't it be advisable to look in the
69



THE MATE

other drawer as well ? Only a single note need be
left behind — and all your precautions are useless.

OLGA {less conjidently). What do you mean ? —
" useless ^' ?

iiOB. You could have spared yourself the trouble,
Olga.

OLGA. What do you mean ? I don't understand
you at all.

lion. You say that of all people, you who knew
perfectly well the relations existing between Eveline
and myself ?

OLGA. After one has been married ten years

But that hasn'^t got anything to do with my
letters.

ROB. And you think that even ten years ago I was
under any illusion ? That would be extremely foolish
on the part of a man who married a wife twenty
years younger than himself. I knew perfectly well
that I had one or two beautiful years at the outside
to look forward to. Yes ! I was perfectly clear on
the point. One can't talk about being under an
illusion. But after all, how many years have we
got ? Life is not long enough for a man to be able
straight away to give up a year of happiness. Besides,
a year is enough — at any rate, for the happiness one
gets out of women. I mean, of course, women with
whom one is in love. One has soon finished with
them. There are a lot of other things in life which
are much more important.

OLGA. That's possible — but one doesn't always
realise it.

70



THE MATE

ROB. I always realised it. She never really filled
my life, not even in that year of happiness. In a
certain sense she more than filled it — her atmosphere,
if you know what I mean. But even her atmosphere
must needs of course be dissipated. All these things
are really quite obvious. {He speaks with increasing
emotion^ but still externally calm,) We had nothing
more in common than the memory of a short-lived
happiness, and I can tell you that that kind of
common memories separates people rather than unites
them.

OLGA. I can conceive of it turning out quite
differently.

iiOB. So can I. But not with a creature like
Eveline. She was made to be a mistress, not a mate.
You know that as well as I do.

OLGA. Mate ! Thafs a very big word. How many
; women arc really fitted to be that ?

iiou. I never asked it of her. As a matter of
fact, I never felt lonely. A man who has a calling
(I don't mean an occupation — a calling, I say) can
never feel lonely, whatever happens.

oi.GA {unenthusiastically). That's the splendid thing
about men — I mean men like you.

ROB. And when our happiness came to an end, I
returned to my own life, which, as you know, she
didn't understand much about, and went my own
way — as she did hers.

OLGA. No, that wasn't the case. No ! no !

ROB. Oh yes, it was ! She told you more than you
will tell me. So [far as I'm concerned, it's quite un-

71



THE MATE

necessary to take any letters away. There are no
surprises, and no discoveries left for me. What do
you really want ? You are positively pathetic. You
want to leave me an illusion — no, to envelop me in
one, of which I have never been the victim. I know
that I lost her long ago — long ago. ( With increasing
excitement) Or do you think I imagine for a single
minute that when Eveline and I ceased to belong to
each other, she proceeded to cut short her whole
life ? that she suddenly became an old woman because
she had left me — or I her ? I never believed that.

OLGA. But, Robert, I can'^t make out why you
should get such notions into your head.

ROB* I know whose the letters are ; they are not
yours. I know that there is somebody in the world
who is far more deeply to be pitied than I am —
somebody who loved her. It is he who has lost her,
not I — not I. You see that, so far as I am concerned,
all this is unnecessary. It can only be that one
who

OLGA. You have made an awful mistake.

ROB. Please leave the subject, Olga. Otherwise
I may end by reading those letters* {Noticing a
movement of Olgas) I won't do it, Olga. We will
burn them before he comes.

OLGA. You will do that ?

ROB. Yes ! I intended to do so before you came.
I should have thrown all the contents of this escritoire
into the fire without looking at them.

OLGA* Yes, I am sure you would not have done
that.

72



THE MATE

ROB. You need not reproach yourself in any way.
Perhaps it's a good thing that I know everything
now, without having to look at the letters. At any
rate, it makes things clear, and thafs the one boon
that we ought to ask of life.

OLGA {seriously). You might have asked a great
deal more.

ROB. I did, long ago, and then I did not ask in

vain ; but now She was young, and I was old.

That's the whole story : we'd understand it right
enough in the case of other people — why not in this one?

At that moment a locomotive whistles in
the distance, olga gives a start. Pause.

OLGA. As a favour to me, don't see him till
to-morrow.

ROB. Do you think that I'm not calm ? Do you

really think that I ? There's only one thing I've

got to be careful about. He must never learn that I
know — if he did, he would only suspect forgiveness
and generosity in every word I spoke. No ! I don't
want that. That's not the case at all. I never
hated him — I don't hate him ; there's not the
slightest reason why I should hate him, or the
slightest reason why I should forgive him. I under-
stand the whole thing far too well. She belonged
to him — we mustn't forget the real point. Don't
let us once more get so confused by the force of the
conventional position as to forget that. It was to him
that she belonged, not to me — and it couldn't have
gone on much longer.

78



THE MATE

OLGA. Please, Robert, don't see him to-night.

ROB. You know perfectly well that she wanted to
leave nie.

OLGA. How should I know that ?

ROB. Because she confided in you.

OLGA. Oh no !

ROB. How did you know, then, where these letters
were to be found ?

OLGA. I found out by chance once when she — read
— one of them — when I was there — I didn''t mean to
hear — but

ROB. But she had to have a confidante — of course
she had. And you couldn't help being hers — that's
all perfectly clear to me. No — things couldn't have
gone on mucli longer. Do you think I haven't seen
how both of them were ashamed of their lives —
how both of them suffered ? Why, I have actually
longed for the moment to come when they should
come to me and say, " Please free us." Why didn't
they have the pluck ? Why didn't I say to them,
'^ Go, then. I won't keep you " .^ But we were all
too cowardly — they and I. That's the senseless part
of the whole thing. We always keep waiting for
something to turn up to put an end to an impossible
position — something that would have spared us the
trouble of being honest with each other; and now
and then that something does turn up, as in our
case. ( The noise of a carriage ; short silence, olga
very moved, robert deliberately calm, goes on speak-
ing.) And one must acknowledge that at any rate
it was a dignified end. {The carriage stops.)

74



THE MATE

OLGA. You will — see him ?

HOB. He must not see the letters.

OLGA. Let me go ; FU take them away.

ROB. This way, down these steps.

OLGA. I hear his step.

ROB. He has come through the garden, then.
( Takes the letters out of her hand and quickly shuts
them up again in the drawer,) You stay. It is too
late. (Steps outside),

ALFRED comes in (piickly; he wears a dark
travelling- suit. He is slightly em-
bairassed when he sees olga. robert
goes forward to meet him^ hut remains
standing after a few steps and xvaits
for him to app?vach. Alfred shakes
hands with him^ and then goes up to
OLGA and shakes hands with her. A
short silence,

ALFRED. We could uever have dreamt of anything
like this, seeing each other under these circumstances,
could we '^

ROB. You can'*t have stopped a minute in town,
old man.

ALF. No ! I couldn't, and be here to-night — and
I had to. ( To olga) Shocking — shocking ! How
did it happen ? I know nothing at all. Just a
word, I implore you.

ROBERT doesnH answer,

OLGA, It happened quite suddenly.
ALF. A heart attack, then ?
75



THE MATE

ROB. Yes.

ALF. Without any previous symptoms ?

ROB. Without any previous symptoms.

ALF. And when ? where ?

ROB. Two days ago in the afternoon, while she
was going for her walk in the garden. The gardener
saw her fall — just near the pond. I heard him shout
from my room — and when I came down it was all
over.

ALF. My poor dear fellow ! What you must have
suffered! One can't realise it — that young and
vital

OLGA. Perhaps it's the most beautiful fate.

ALF. That's poor consolation.

ROB. My telegram must have been delayed, I
suppose ?

ALF. Yes; otherwise I should have been here
much earlier in the day. Yes, if there were such
things as presentiments, something would have made
me come home much earlier.

OLGA. But there aren't.

ALF. Quite true. It was a day just like any
other — if possible, brighter and more cheerful than
usual.

ROB. More cheerful than usual.

ALF. Of course — I remember it now. We had
gone for a sail, right out into the sea, and then in
the cool of the evening we went for a walk on the
sands.

ROB. "We".?

ALF. Of course — a whole lot of us. And when I
76



^ THE MATE

came back to the hotel I stood by my window
looking out on to the sea for perhaps a quarter of
an hour. I then turned on the light, and there was
the telegram lying on the table. Ah ! {Pause — he
holds his hand in front of his eyes, olga loolcs at