READ STUDY GUIDE: Act IV, scenes i–v |
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Act IV, Scene iii
| The SAME. Cyrano. |
| CYRANO (appearing from the tent, very calm, with a pen stuck behind his ear |
| and a book in his hand): |
 What is wrong? |
| (Silence. To the first cadet): |
| Why drag you your legs so sorrowfully? |
| THE CADET: |
| I have something in my heels which weighs them down. |
| CYRANO: |
| And what may that be? |
| THE CADET: |
| My stomach! |
| CYRANO: |
| So have I, 'faith! |
| THE CADET: |
| It must be in your way? |
| CYRANO: |
| Nay, I am all the taller. |
| A THIRD: |
| My stomach's hollow. |
| CYRANO: |
| 'Faith, 'twill make a fine drum to sound the assault. |
| ANOTHER: |
| I have a ringing in my ears. |
| CYRANO: |
| No, no, 'tis false; a hungry stomach has no ears. |
| ANOTHER: |
| Oh, to eat something—something oily! |
| CYRANO (pulling off the cadet's helmet and holding it out to him): |
| Behold your salad! |
| ANOTHER: |
| What, in God's name, can we devour? |
| CYRANO (throwing him the book which he is carrying): |
| The 'Iliad'. |
| ANOTHER: |
| The first minister in Paris has his four meals a day! |
| CYRANO: |
| 'Twere courteous an he sent you a few partridges! |
| THE SAME: |
| And why not? with wine, too! |
| CYRANO: |
| A little Burgundy. Richelieu, s'il vous plait! |
| THE SAME: |
| He could send it by one of his friars. |
| CYRANO: |
| Ay! by His Eminence Joseph himself. |
| ANOTHER: |
| I am as ravenous as an ogre! |
| CYRANO: |
| Eat your patience, then. |
| THE FIRST CADET (shrugging his shoulders): |
| Always your pointed word! |
| CYRANO: |
| Ay, pointed words! |
| I would fain die thus, some soft summer eve, |
| Making a pointed word for a good cause. |
| —To make a soldier's end by soldier's sword, |
| Wielded by some brave adversary—die |
| On blood-stained turf, not on a fever-bed, |
| A point upon my lips, a point within my heart. |
| CRIES FROM ALL: |
| I'm hungry! |
| CYRANO (crossing his arms): |
| All your thoughts of meat and drink! |
| Bertrand the fifer!—you were shepherd once,— |
| Draw from its double leathern case your fife, |
| Play to these greedy, guzzling soldiers. Play |
| Old country airs with plaintive rhythm recurring, |
| Where lurk sweet echoes of the dear home-voices, |
| Each note of which calls like a little sister, |
| Those airs slow, slow ascending, as the smoke-wreaths |
| Rise from the hearthstones of our native hamlets, |
| Their music strikes the ear like Gascon patois!. . . |
| (The old man seats himself, and gets his flute ready): |
| Your flute was now a warrior in durance; |
| But on its stem your fingers are a-dancing |
| A bird-like minuet! O flute! Remember |
| That flutes were made of reeds first, not laburnum; |
| Make us a music pastoral days recalling— |
| The soul-time of your youth, in country pastures!. . . |
| (The old man begins to play the airs of Languedoc): |
| Hark to the music, Gascons!. . .'Tis no longer |
| The piercing fife of camp—but 'neath his fingers |
| The flute of the woods! No more the call to combat, |
| 'Tis now the love-song of the wandering goat-herds!. . . |
| Hark!. . .'tis the valley, the wet landes, the forest, |
| The sunburnt shepherd-boy with scarlet beret, |
| The dusk of evening on the Dordogne river,— |
| 'Tis Gascony! Hark, Gascons, to the music! |
| (The cadets sit with bowed heads; their eyes have a far-off look as if |
| dreaming, and they surreptitiously wipe away their tears with their cuffs and |
| the corner of their cloaks.) |
| CARBON (to Cyrano in a whisper): |
| But you make them weep! |
| CYRANO: |
| Ay, for homesickness. A nobler pain than hunger,—'tis of the soul, not of |
| the body! I am well pleased to see their pain change its viscera. Heart-ache |
| is better than stomach-ache. |
| CARBON: |
| But you weaken their courage by playing thus on their heart-strings! |
| CYRANO (making a sign to a drummer to approach): |
| Not I. The hero that sleeps in Gascon blood is ever ready to awake in them. |
| 'Twould suffice. . . |
| (He makes a signal; the drum beats.) |
| ALL THE CADETS (stand up and rush to take arms): |
| What? What is it? |
| CYRANO (smiling): |
| You see! One roll of the drum is enough! Good-by dreams, regrets, native |
| land, love. . .All that the pipe called forth the drum has chased away! |
| A CADET (looking toward the back of the stage): |
| Ho! here comes Monsieur de Guiche. |
| ALL THE CADETS (muttering): |
| Ugh!. . .Ugh!. . . |
| CYRANO (smiling): |
| A flattering welcome! |
| A CADET: |
| We are sick to death of him! |
| ANOTHER CADET: |
| —With his lace collar over his armor, playing the fine gentleman! |
| ANOTHER: |
| As if one wore linen over steel! |
| THE FIRST: |
| It were good for a bandage had he boils on his neck. |
| THE SECOND: |
| Another plotting courtier! |
| ANOTHER CADET: |
| His uncle's own nephew! |
| CARBON: |
| For all that—a Gascon. |
| THE FIRST: |
| Ay, false Gascon!. . .trust him not. . . |
| Gascons should ever be crack-brained. . . |
| Naught more dangerous than a rational Gascon. |
| LE BRET: |
| How pale he is! |
| ANOTHER: |
| Oh! he is hungry, just like us poor devils; but under his cuirass, with its |
| fine gilt nails, his stomach-ache glitters brave in the sun. |
| CYRANO (hurriedly): |
| Let us not seem to suffer either! Out with your cards, pipes, and dice. . . |
| (All begin spreading out the games on the drums, the stools, the ground, and |
| on their cloaks, and light long pipes): |
| And I shall read Descartes. |
| (He walks up and down, reading a little book which he has drawn from his |
| pocket. Tableau. Enter De Guiche. All appear absorbed and happy. He is |
| very pale. He goes up to Carbon.) |
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