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Act I, Scene iv | MONTFLEURY (to the marquises): |  Come to my help, my lords! |
| A MARQUIS (carelessly): | | Go on! Go on! |
| CYRANO: | | Fat man, take warning! If you go on, I | | Shall feel myself constrained to cuff your face! |
| THE MARQUIS: | | Have done! |
| CYRANO: | | And if these lords hold not their tongue | | Shall feel constrained to make them taste my cane! |
| ALL THE MARQUISES (rising): | | Enough!. . .Montfleury. . . |
| CYRANO: | | If he goes not quick | | I will cut off his ears and slit him up! |
| A VOICE: | | But. . . |
| CYRANO: | | Out he goes! |
| ANOTHER VOICE: | | Yet. . . |
| CYRANO: | | Is he not gone yet? | | (He makes the gesture of turning up his cuffs): | | Good! I shall mount the stage now, buffet-wise, | | To carve this fine Italian sausage—thus! |
| MONTFLEURY (trying to be dignified): | | You outrage Thalia in insulting me! |
| CYRANO (very politely): | | If that Muse, Sir, who knows you not at all, | | Could claim acquaintance with you—oh, believe | | (Seeing how urn-like, fat, and slow you are) | | That she would make you taste her buskin's sole! |
| THE PIT: | | Montfleury! Montfleury! Come—Baro's play! |
| CYRANO (to those who are calling out): | | I pray you have a care! If you go on | | My scabbard soon will render up its blade! |
| (The circle round him widens.) |
| THE CROWD (drawing back): | | Take care! |
| CYRANO (to Montfleury): | | Leave the stage! |
| THE CROWD (coming near and grumbling): | | Oh!— |
| CYRANO: | | Did some one speak? |
| A VOICE (singing at the back): | | Monsieur de Cyrano | | Displays his tyrannies: | | A fig for tyrants! What, ho! | | Come! Play us 'La Clorise!' |
| ALL THE PIT (singing): | | 'La Clorise!' 'La Clorise!'. . . |
| CYRANO: | | Let me but hear once more that foolish rhyme, | | I slaughter every man of you. |
| A BURGHER: | | Oh! Samson? |
| CYRANO: | | Yes Samson! Will you lend your jawbone, Sir? |
| A LADY (in the boxes): | | Outrageous! |
| A LORD: | | Scandalous! |
| A BURGHER: | | 'Tis most annoying! |
| A PAGE: | | Fair good sport! |
| THE PIT: | | Kss!—Montfleury. . .Cyrano! |
| CYRANO: | | Silence! |
| THE PIT (wildly excited): | | Ho-o-o-o-h! Quack! Cock-a-doodle-doo! |
| CYRANO: | | I order— |
| A PAGE: | | Miow! |
| CYRANO: | | I order silence, all! | | And challenge the whole pit collectively!— | | I write your names!—Approach, young heroes, here! | | Each in his turn! I cry the numbers out!— | | Now which of you will come to ope the lists? | | You, Sir? No! You? No! The first duellist | | Shall be dispatched by me with honors due! | | Let all who long for death hold up their hands! | | (A silence): | | Modest? You fear to see my naked blade? | | Not one name?—Not one hand?—Good, I proceed! | | (Turning toward the stage, where Montfleury waits in an agony): | | The theater's too full, congested,—I | | Would clear it out. . .If not. . . | | (Puts his hand on his sword): | | The knife must act! |
| MONTFLEURY: | | I. . . |
| CYRANO (leaves his chair, and settles himself in the middle of the circle | | which has formed): | | I will clap my hands thrice, thus—full moon! At the third clap, eclipse | | yourself! |
| THE PIT (amused): | | Ah! |
| CYRANO (clapping his hands): | | One! |
| MONTFLEURY: | | I. . . |
| A VOICE (in the boxes): | | Stay! |
| THE PIT: | | He stays. . .he goes. . .he stays. . . |
| MONTFLEURY: | | I think. . .Gentlemen,. . . |
| CYRANO: | | Two! |
| MONTFLEURY: | | I think 'twere wisest. . . |
| CYRANO: | | Three! |
| (Montfleury disappears as through a trap. Tempest of laughs, whistling cries, | | etc.) |
| THE WHOLE HOUSE: | | Coward. . .come back! |
| CYRANO (delighted, sits back in his chair, arms crossed): | | Come back an if you dare! |
| A BURGHER: | | Call for the orator! |
| (Bellerose comes forward and bows.) |
| THE BOXES: | | Ah! here's Bellerose! |
| BELLEROSE (elegantly): | | My noble lords. . . |
| THE PIT: | | No! no! Jodelet! |
| JODELET (advancing, speaking through his nose): | | Calves! |
| THE PIT: | | Ah! bravo! good! go on! |
| JODELET: | | No bravos, Sirs! | | The fat tragedian whom you all love | | Felt. . . |
| THE PIT: | | Coward! |
| JODELET: | | . . .was obliged to go. |
| THE PIT: | | Come back! |
| SOME: | | No! |
| OTHERS: | | Yes! |
| A YOUNG MAN (to Cyrano): | | But pray, Sir, for what reason, say, | | Hate you Montfleury? |
| CYRANO (graciously, still seated): | | Youthful gander, know | | I have two reasons—either will suffice. | | Primo. An actor villainous! who mouths, | | And heaves up like a bucket from a well | | The verses that should, bird-like, fly! Secundo— | | That is my secret. . . |
| THE OLD BURGHER (behind him): | | Shameful! You deprive us | | Of the 'Clorise!' I must insist. . . |
| CYRANO (turning his chair toward the burgher, respectfully): | | Old mule! | | The verses of old Baro are not worth | | A doit! I'm glad to interrupt. . . |
| THE PRECIEUSES (in the boxes): | | Our Baro!— | | My dear! How dares he venture!. . . |
| CYRANO (turning his chair toward the boxes gallantly): | | Fairest ones, | | Radiate, bloom, hold to our lips the cup | | Of dreams intoxicating, Hebe-like! | | Or, when death strikes, charm death with your sweet smiles; | | Inspire our verse, but—criticise it not! |
| BELLEROSE: | | We must give back the entrance fees! |
| CYRANO (turning his chair toward the stage): | | Bellerose, | | You make the first intelligent remark! | | Would I rend Thespis' sacred mantle? Nay! | | (He rises and throws a bag on the stage): | | Catch then the purse I throw, and hold your peace! |
| THE HOUSE (dazzled): | | Ah! Oh! |
| JODELET (catching the purse dexterously and weighing it): | | At this price, you've authority | | To come each night, and stop 'Clorise,' Sir! |
| THE PIT: | | Ho!. . .Ho! Ho!. . . |
| JODELET: | | E'en if you chase us in a pack!. . . |
| BELLEROSE: | | Clear out the hall!. . . |
| JODELET: | | Get you all gone at once! |
| (The people begin to go out, while Cyrano looks on with satisfaction. But the | | crowd soon stop on hearing the following scene, and remain where they are. | | The women, who, with their mantles on, are already standing up in the boxes, | | stop to listen, and finally reseat themselves.) |
| A BORE (coming up to Cyrano): | | The actor Montfleury! 'Tis shameful! | | Why, he's protected by the Duke of Candal! | | Have you a patron? |
| CYRANO: | | No! |
| THE BORE: | | No patron?. . . |
| CYRANO: | | None! |
| THE BORE: | | What! no great lord to shield you with his name? |
| CYRANO (irritated): | | No, I have told you twice! Must I repeat? | | No! no protector. . . | | (His hand on his sword): | | A protectress. . .here! |
| THE BORE: | | But you must leave the town? |
| CYRANO: | | Well, that depends! |
| THE BORE: | | The Duke has a long arm! |
| CYRANO: | | But not so long | | As mine, when it is lengthened out. . . | | (Shows his sword): | | As thus! |
| THE BORE: | | You think not to contend? |
| CYRANO: | | 'Tis my idea! |
| THE BORE: | | But. . . |
| CYRANO: | | Show your heels! now! |
| THE BORE: | | But I. . . |
| CYRANO: | | Or tell me why you stare so at my nose! |
| THE BORE (staggered): | | I. . . |
| CYRANO (walking straight up to him): | | Well, what is there strange? |
| THE BORE (drawing back): | | Your Grace mistakes! |
| CYRANO: | | How now? Is't soft and dangling, like a trunk?. . . |
| THE BORE (same play): | | I never. . . |
| CYRANO: | | Is it crook'd, like an owl's beak? |
| THE BORE: | | I. . . |
| CYRANO: | | Do you see a wart upon the tip? |
| THE BORE: | | Nay. . . |
| CYRANO: | | Or a fly, that takes the air there? What | | Is there to stare at? |
| THE BORE: | | Oh. . . |
| CYRANO: | | What do you see? |
| THE BORE: | | But I was careful not to look—knew better. |
| CYRANO: | | And why not look at it, an if you please? |
| THE BORE: | | I was. . . |
| CYRANO: | | Oh! it disgusts you! |
| THE BORE: | | Sir! |
| CYRANO: | | Its hue | | Unwholesome seems to you? |
| THE BORE: | | Sir! |
| CYRANO: | | Or its shape? |
| THE BORE: | | No, on the contrary!. . . |
| CYRANO: | | Why then that air | | Disparaging?—perchance you think it large? |
| THE BORE (stammering): | | No, small, quite small—minute! |
| CYRANO: | | Minute! What now? | | Accuse me of a thing ridiculous! | | Small—my nose? |
| THE BORE: | | Heaven help me! |
| CYRANO: | | 'Tis enormous! | | Old Flathead, empty-headed meddler, know | | That I am proud possessing such appendice. | | 'Tis well known, a big nose is indicative | | Of a soul affable, and kind, and courteous, | | Liberal, brave, just like myself, and such | | As you can never dare to dream yourself, | | Rascal contemptible! For that witless face | | That my hand soon will come to cuff—is all | | As empty. . . |
| THE BORE: | | Aie! |
| CYRANO: | | —of pride, of aspiration, | | Of feeling, poetry—of godlike spark | | Of all that appertains to my big nose, | | (He turns him by the shoulders, suiting the action to the word): | | As. . .what my boot will shortly come and kick! |
| THE BORE (running away): | | Help! Call the Guard! |
| CYRANO: | | Take notice, boobies all, | | Who find my visage's center ornament | | A thing to jest at—that it is my wont— | | An if the jester's noble—ere we part | | To let him taste my steel, and not my boot! |
| DE GUICHE (who, with the marquises, has come down from the stage): | | But he becomes a nuisance! |
| THE VISCOUNT DE VALVERT (shrugging his shoulders): | | Swaggerer! |
| DE GUICHE: | | Will no one put him down?. . . |
| THE VISCOUNT: | | No one? But wait! | | I'll treat him to. . .one of my quips!. . .See here!. . . | | (He goes up to Cyrano, who is watching him, and with a conceited air): | | Sir, your nose is. . .hmm. . .it is. . .very big! |
| CYRANO (gravely): | | Very! |
| THE VISCOUNT (laughing): | | Ha! |
| CYRANO (imperturbably): | | Is that all?. . . |
| THE VISCOUNT: | | What do you mean? |
| CYRANO: | | Ah no! young blade! That was a trifle short! | | You might have said at least a hundred things | | By varying the tone. . .like this, suppose,. . . | | Aggressive: 'Sir, if I had such a nose | | I'd amputate it!' Friendly: 'When you sup | | It must annoy you, dipping in your cup; | | You need a drinking-bowl of special shape!' | | Descriptive: ''Tis a rock!. . .a peak!. . .a cape! | | —A cape, forsooth! 'Tis a peninsular!' | | Curious: 'How serves that oblong capsular? | | For scissor-sheath? Or pot to hold your ink?' | | Gracious: 'You love the little birds, I think? | | I see you've managed with a fond research | | To find their tiny claws a roomy perch!' | | Truculent: 'When you smoke your pipe. . .suppose | | That the tobacco-smoke spouts from your nose— | | Do not the neighbors, as the fumes rise higher, | | Cry terror-struck: "The chimney is afire"?' | | Considerate: 'Take care,. . .your head bowed low | | By such a weight. . .lest head o'er heels you go!' | | Tender: 'Pray get a small umbrella made, | | Lest its bright color in the sun should fade!' | | Pedantic: 'That beast Aristophanes | | Names Hippocamelelephantoles | | Must have possessed just such a solid lump | | Of flesh and bone, beneath his forehead's bump!' | | Cavalier: 'The last fashion, friend, that hook? | | To hang your hat on? 'Tis a useful crook!' | | Emphatic: 'No wind, O majestic nose, | | Can give THEE cold!—save when the mistral blows!' | | Dramatic: 'When it bleeds, what a Red Sea!' | | Admiring: 'Sign for a perfumery!' | | Lyric: 'Is this a conch?. . .a Triton you?' | | Simple: 'When is the monument on view?' | | Rustic: 'That thing a nose? Marry-come-up! | | 'Tis a dwarf pumpkin, or a prize turnip!' | | Military: 'Point against cavalry!' | | Practical: 'Put it in a lottery! | | Assuredly 'twould be the biggest prize!' | | Or. . .parodying Pyramus' sighs. . . | | 'Behold the nose that mars the harmony | | Of its master's phiz! blushing its treachery!' | | —Such, my dear sir, is what you might have said, | | Had you of wit or letters the least jot: | | But, O most lamentable man!—of wit | | You never had an atom, and of letters | | You have three letters only!—they spell Ass! | | And—had you had the necessary wit, | | To serve me all the pleasantries I quote | | Before this noble audience. . .e'en so, | | You would not have been let to utter one— | | Nay, not the half or quarter of such jest! | | I take them from myself all in good part, | | But not from any other man that breathes! |
| DE GUICHE (trying to draw away the dismayed viscount): | | Come away, Viscount! |
| THE VISCOUNT (choking with rage): | | Hear his arrogance! | | A country lout who. . .who. . .has got no gloves! | | Who goes out without sleeve-knots, ribbons, lace! |
| CYRANO: | | True; all my elegances are within. | | I do not prank myself out, puppy-like; | | My toilet is more thorough, if less gay; | | I would not sally forth—a half-washed-out | | Affront upon my cheek—a conscience | | Yellow-eyed, bilious, from its sodden sleep, | | A ruffled honor,. . .scruples grimed and dull! | | I show no bravery of shining gems. | | Truth, Independence, are my fluttering plumes. | | 'Tis not my form I lace to make me slim, | | But brace my soul with efforts as with stays, | | Covered with exploits, not with ribbon-knots, | | My spirit bristling high like your mustaches, | | I, traversing the crowds and chattering groups | | Make Truth ring bravely out like clash of spurs! |
| THE VISCOUNT: | | But, Sir. . . |
| CYRANO: | | I wear no gloves? And what of that? | | I had one,. . .remnant of an old worn pair, | | And, knowing not what else to do with it, | | I threw it in the face of. . .some young fool. |
| THE VISCOUNT: | | Base scoundrel! Rascally flat-footed lout! |
| CYRANO (taking off his hat, and bowing as if the viscount had introduced | | himself): | | Ah?. . .and I, Cyrano Savinien | | Hercule de Bergerac |
| THE VISCOUNT (angrily): | | Buffoon! |
| CYRANO (calling out as if he had been seized with the cramp): | | Aie! Aie! |
| THE VISCOUNT (who was going away, turns back): | | What on earth is the fellow saying now? |
| CYRANO (with grimaces of pain): | | It must be moved—it's getting stiff, I vow, | | —This comes of leaving it in idleness! | | Aie!. . . |
| THE VISCOUNT: | | What ails you? |
| CYRANO: | | The cramp! cramp in my sword! |
| THE VISCOUNT (drawing his sword): | | Good! |
| CYRANO: | | You shall feel a charming little stroke! |
| THE VISCOUNT (contemptuously): | | Poet!. . . |
| CYRANO: | | Ay, poet, Sir! In proof of which, | | While we fence, presto! all extempore | | I will compose a ballade. |
| THE VISCOUNT: | | A ballade? |
| CYRANO: | | Belike you know not what a ballade is. |
| THE VISCOUNT: | | But. . . |
| CYRANO (reciting, as if repeating a lesson): | | Know then that the ballade should contain | | Three eight-versed couplets. . . |
| THE VISCOUNT (stamping): | | Oh! |
| CYRANO (still reciting): | | And an envoi | | Of four lines. . . |
| THE VISCOUNT: | | You. . . |
| CYRANO: | | I'll make one while we fight; | | And touch you at the final line. |
| THE VISCOUNT: | | No! |
| CYRANO: | | No? | | (declaiming): | | The duel in Hotel of Burgundy—fought | | By De Bergerac and a good-for-naught! |
| THE VISCOUNT: | | What may that be, an if you please? |
| CYRANO: | | The title. |
| THE HOUSE (in great excitement): | | Give room!—Good sport!—Make place!—Fair play!—No noise! |
| (Tableau. A circle of curious spectators in the pit; the marquises and | | officers mingled with the common people; the pages climbing on each other's | | shoulders to see better. All the women standing up in the boxes. To the | | right, De Guiche and his retinue. Left, Le Bret, Ragueneau, Cyrano, etc.) |
| CYRANO (shutting his eyes for a second): | | Wait while I choose my rhymes. . .I have them now! | | (He suits the action to each word): | | I gayly doff my beaver low, | | And, freeing hand and heel, | | My heavy mantle off I throw, | | And I draw my polished steel; | | Graceful as Phoebus, round I wheel, | | Alert as Scaramouch, | | A word in your ear, Sir Spark, I steal— | | At the envoi's end, I touch! | | (They engage): | | Better for you had you lain low; | | Where skewer my cock? In the heel?— | | In the heart, your ribbon blue below?— | | In the hip, and make you kneel? | | Ho for the music of clashing steel! | | —What now?—A hit? Not much! | | 'Twill be in the paunch the stroke I steal, | | When, at the envoi, I touch. |
| Oh, for a rhyme, a rhyme in o?— | | You wriggle, starch-white, my eel? | | A rhyme! a rhyme! The white feather you SHOW! | | Tac! I parry the point of your steel; | | —The point you hoped to make me feel; | | I open the line, now clutch | | Your spit, Sir Scullion—slow your zeal! | | At the envoi's end, I touch. | | (He declaims solemnly): | | Envoi. | | Prince, pray Heaven for your soul's weal! | | I move a pace—lo, such! and such! | | Cut over—feint! | | (Thrusting): | | What ho! You reel? | | (The viscount staggers. Cyrano salutes): | | At the envoi's end, I touch! |
| (Acclamations. Applause in the boxes. Flowers and handkerchiefs are thrown | | down. The officers surround Cyrano, congratulating him. Ragueneau dances for | | joy. Le Bret is happy, but anxious. The viscount's friends hold him up and | | bear him away.) |
| THE CROWD (with one long shout): | | Ah! |
| A TROOPER: | | 'Tis superb! |
| A WOMAN: | | A pretty stroke! |
| RAGUENEAU: | | A marvel! |
| A MARQUIS: | | A novelty! |
| LE BRET: | | O madman! |
| THE CROWD (presses round Cyrano. Chorus of): | | Compliments! | | Bravo! Let me congratulate!. . .Quite unsurpassed!. . . |
| A WOMAN'S VOICE: | | There is a hero for you!. . . |
| A MUSKETEER (advancing to Cyrano with outstretched hand): | | Sir, permit; | | Naught could be finer—I'm a judge I think; | | I stamped, i' faith!—to show my admiration! |
| CYRANO (to Cuigy): | | Who is that gentleman? |
| CUIGY: | | Why—D'Artagnan! |
| LE BRET (to Cyrano, taking his arm): | | A word with you!. . . |
| CYRANO: | | Wait; let the rabble go!. . . | | (To Bellerose): | | May I stay? |
| BELLEROSE (respectfully): | | Without doubt! |
| (Cries are heard outside.) |
| JODELET (who has looked out): | | They hoot Montfleury! |
| BELLEROSE (solemnly): | | Sic transit!. . . | | (To the porters): | | Sweep—close all, but leave the lights. | | We sup, but later on we must return, | | For a rehearsal of to-morrow's farce. |
| (Jodelet and Bellerose go out, bowing low to Cyrano.) |
| THE PORTER (to Cyrano): | | You do not dine, Sir? |
| CYRANO: | | No. |
| LE BRET: | | Because? |
| CYRANO (proudly): | | Because. . . | | (Changing his tone as the porter goes away): | | I have no money!. . . |
| LE BRET (with the action of throwing a bag): | | How! The bag of crowns?. . . |
| CYRANO: | | Paternal bounty, in a day, thou'rt sped! |
| LE BRET: | | How live the next month?. . . |
| CYRANO: | | I have nothing left. |
| LE BRET: | | Folly! |
| CYRANO: | | But what a graceful action! Think! |
| THE BUFFET-GIRL (coughing, behind her counter): | | Hum! | | (Cyrano and Le Bret turn. She comes timidly forward): | | Sir, my heart mislikes to know you fast. | | (Showing the buffet): | | See, all you need. Serve yourself! |
| CYRANO (taking off his hat): | | Gentle child, | | Although my Gascon pride would else forbid | | To take the least bestowal from your hands, | | My fear of wounding you outweighs that pride, | | And bids accept. . . | | (He goes to the buffet): | | A trifle!. . .These few grapes. | | (She offers him the whole bunch. He takes a few): | | Nay, but this bunch!. . . | | (She tries to give him wine, but he stops her): | | A glass of water fair!. . . | | And half a macaroon! |
| (He gives back the other half.) |
| LE BRET: | | What foolery! |
| THE BUFFET-GIRL: | | Take something else! |
| CYRANO: | | I take your hand to kiss. |
| (He kisses her hand as though she were a princess.) |
| THE BUFFET-GIRL: | | Thank you, kind Sir! | | (She courtesies): | | Good-night. |
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