READ STUDY GUIDE: Act V, scenes i-vi |
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Act V, Scene v
| Roxane, Cyrano and, for a moment, Sister Martha. |
| ROXANE (without turning round): |
 What was I saying?. . . |
| (She embroiders. Cyrano, very pale, his hat pulled down over his eyes, |
| appears. The sister who had announced him retires. He descends the steps |
| slowly, with a visible difficulty in holding himself upright, bearing heavily |
| on his cane. Roxane still works at her tapestry): |
| Time has dimmed the tints. . . |
| How harmonize them now? |
| (To Cyrano, with playful reproach): |
| For the first time |
| Late!—For the first time, all these fourteen years! |
| CYRANO (who has succeeded in reaching the chair, and has seated himself—in a |
| lively voice, which is in great contrast with his pale face): |
| Ay! It is villainous! I raged—was stayed. . . |
| ROXANE: |
| By?. . . |
| CYRANO: |
| By a bold, unwelcome visitor. |
| ROXANE (absently, working): |
| Some creditor? |
| CYRANO: |
| Ay, cousin,—the last creditor |
| Who has a debt to claim from me. |
| ROXANE: |
| And you |
| Have paid it? |
| CYRANO: |
| No, not yet! I put it off; |
| —Said, 'Cry you mercy; this is Saturday, |
| When I have get a standing rendezvous |
| That naught defers. Call in an hour's time!' |
| ROXANE (carelessly): |
| Oh, well, a creditor can always wait! |
| I shall not let you go ere twilight falls. |
| CYRANO: |
| Haply, perforce, I quit you ere it falls! |
| (He shuts his eyes, and is silent for a moment. Sister Martha crosses the |
| park from the chapel to the flight of steps. Roxane, seeing her, signs to her |
| to approach.) |
| ROXANE (to Cyrano): |
| How now? You have not teased the Sister? |
| CYRANO (hastily opening his eyes): |
| True! |
| (In a comically loud voice): |
| Sister! come here! |
| (The sister glides up to him): |
| Ha! ha! What? Those bright eyes |
| Bent ever on the ground? |
| SISTER MARTHA (who makes a movement of astonishment on seeing his face): |
| Oh! |
| CYRANO (in a whisper, pointing to Roxane): |
| Hush! 'tis naught!— |
| (Loudly, in a blustering voice): |
| I broke fast yesterday! |
| SISTER MARTHA (aside): |
| I know, I know! |
| That's how he is so pale! Come presently |
| To the refectory, I'll make you drink |
| A famous bowl of soup. . .You'll come? |
| CYRANO: |
| Ay, ay! |
| SISTER MARTHA: |
| There, see! You are more reasonable to-day! |
| ROXANE (who hears them whispering): |
| The Sister would convert you? |
| SISTER MARTHA: |
| Nay, not I! |
| CYRANO: |
| Hold! but it's true! You preach to me no more, |
| You, once so glib with holy words! I am |
| Astonished!. . . |
| (With burlesque fury): |
| Stay, I will surprise you too! |
| Hark! I permit you. . . |
| (He pretends to be seeking for something to tease her with, and to have found |
| it): |
| . . .It is something new!— |
| To—pray for me, to-night, at chapel-time! |
| ROXANE: |
| Oh! oh! |
| CYRANO (laughing): |
| Good Sister Martha is struck dumb! |
| SISTER MARTHA (gently): |
| I did not wait your leave to pray for you. |
| (She goes out.) |
| CYRANO (turning to Roxane, who is still bending over her work): |
| That tapestry! Beshrew me if my eyes |
| Will ever see it finished! |
| ROXANE: |
| I was sure |
| To hear that well-known jest! |
| (A light breeze causes the leaves to fall.) |
| CYRANO: |
| The autumn leaves! |
| ROXANE (lifting her head, and looking down the distant alley): |
| Soft golden brown, like a Venetian's hair. |
| —See how they fall! |
| CYRANO: |
| Ay, see how brave they fall, |
| In their last journey downward from the bough, |
| To rot within the clay; yet, lovely still, |
| Hiding the horror of the last decay, |
| With all the wayward grace of careless flight! |
| ROXANE: |
| What, melancholy—you? |
| CYRANO (collecting himself): |
| Nay, nay, Roxane! |
| ROXANE: |
| Then let the dead leaves fall the way they will. . . |
| And chat. What, have you nothing new to tell, |
| My Court Gazette? |
| CYRANO: |
| Listen. |
| ROXANE: |
| Ah! |
| CYRANO (growing whiter and whiter): |
| Saturday |
| The nineteenth: having eaten to excess |
| Of pear-conserve, the King felt feverish; |
| The lancet quelled this treasonable revolt, |
| And the august pulse beats at normal pace. |
| At the Queen's ball on Sunday thirty score |
| Of best white waxen tapers were consumed. |
| Our troops, they say, have chased the Austrians. |
| Four sorcerers were hanged. The little dog |
| Of Madame d'Athis took a dose. . . |
| ROXANE: |
| I bid |
| You hold your tongue, Monsieur de Bergerac! |
| CYRANO: |
| Monday—not much—Claire changed protector. |
| ROXANE: |
| Oh! |
| CYRANO (whose face changes more and more): |
| Tuesday, the Court repaired to Fontainebleau. |
| Wednesday, the Montglat said to Comte de Fiesque. . . |
| No! Thursday—Mancini, Queen of France! (almost!) |
| Friday, the Monglat to Count Fiesque said—'Yes!' |
| And Saturday the twenty-sixth. . . |
| (He closes his eyes. His head falls forward. Silence.) |
| ROXANE (surprised at his voice ceasing, turns round, looks at him, and rising, |
| terrified): |
| He swoons! |
| (She runs toward him crying): |
| Cyrano! |
| CYRANO (opening his eyes, in an unconcerned voice): |
| What is this? |
| (He sees Roxane bending over him, and, hastily pressing his hat on his head, |
| and shrinking back in his chair): |
| Nay, on my word |
| 'Tis nothing! Let me be! |
| ROXANE: |
| But. . . |
| CYRANO: |
| That old wound |
| Of Arras, sometimes,—as you know. . . |
| ROXANE: |
| Dear friend! |
| CYRANO: |
| 'Tis nothing, 'twill pass soon; |
| (He smiles with an effort): |
| See!—it has passed! |
| ROXANE: |
| Each of us has his wound; ay, I have mine,— |
| Never healed up—not healed yet, my old wound! |
| (She puts her hand on her breast): |
| 'Tis here, beneath this letter brown with age, |
| All stained with tear-drops, and still stained with blood. |
| (Twilight begins to fall.) |
| CYRANO: |
| His letter! Ah! you promised me one day |
| That I should read it. |
| ROXANE: |
| What would you?—His letter? |
| CYRANO: |
| Yes, I would fain,—to-day. . . |
| ROXANE (giving the bag hung at her neck): |
| See! here it is! |
| CYRANO (taking it): |
| Have I your leave to open? |
| ROXANE: |
| Open—read! |
| (She comes back to her tapestry frame, folds it up, sorts her wools.) |
| CYRANO (reading): |
| 'Roxane, adieu! I soon must die! |
| This very night, beloved; and I |
| Feel my soul heavy with love untold. |
| I die! No more, as in days of old, |
| My loving, longing eyes will feast |
| On your least gesture—ay, the least! |
| I mind me the way you touch your cheek |
| With your finger, softly, as you speak! |
| Ah me! I know that gesture well! |
| My heart cries out!—I cry "Farewell"!' |
| ROXANE: |
| But how you read that letter! One would think. . . |
| CYRANO (continuing to read): |
| 'My life, my love, my jewel, my sweet, |
| My heart has been yours in every beat!' |
| (The shades of evening fall imperceptibly.) |
| ROXANE: |
| You read in such a voice—so strange—and yet— |
| It is not the first time I hear that voice! |
| (She comes nearer very softly, without his perceiving it, passes behind his |
| chair, and, noiselessly leaning over him, looks at the letter. The darkness |
| deepens.) |
| CYRANO: |
| 'Here, dying, and there, in the land on high, |
| I am he who loved, who loves you,—I. . .' |
| ROXANE (putting her hand on his shoulder): |
| How can you read? It is too dark to see! |
| (He starts, turns, sees her close to him. Suddenly alarmed, he holds his head |
| down. Then in the dusk, which has now completely enfolded them, she says, |
| very slowly, with clasped hands): |
| And, fourteen years long, he has played this part |
| Of the kind old friend who comes to laugh and chat. |
| CYRANO: |
| Roxane! |
| ROXANE: |
| 'Twas you! |
| CYRANO: |
| No, never; Roxane, no! |
| ROXANE: |
| I should have guessed, each time he said my name! |
| CYRANO: |
| No, it was not I! |
| ROXANE: |
| It was you! |
| CYRANO: |
| I swear! |
| ROXANE: |
| I see through all the generous counterfeit— |
| The letters—you! |
| CYRANO: |
| No. |
| ROXANE: |
| The sweet, mad love-words! |
| You! |
| CYRANO: |
| No! |
| ROXANE: |
| The voice that thrilled the night—you, you! |
| CYRANO: |
| I swear you err. |
| ROXANE: |
| The soul—it was your soul! |
| CYRANO: |
| I loved you not. |
| ROXANE: |
| You loved me not? |
| CYRANO: |
| 'Twas he! |
| ROXANE: |
| You loved me! |
| CYRANO: |
| No! |
| ROXANE: |
| See! how you falter now! |
| CYRANO: |
| No, my sweet love, I never loved you! |
| ROXANE: |
| Ah! |
| Things dead, long dead, see! how they rise again! |
| —Why, why keep silence all these fourteen years, |
| When, on this letter, which he never wrote, |
| The tears were your tears? |
| CYRANO (holding out the letter to her): |
| The bloodstains were his. |
| ROXANE: |
| Why, then, that noble silence,—kept so long— |
| Broken to-day for the first time—why? |
| CYRANO: |
| Why?. . . |
| (Le Bret and Ragueneau enter running.) |
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