represents a happy compromise between Maeterlinck's own drama of stasis and

traditional dramatic plotting.

Aurelien Lugne-Poe directed Maeterlinck's early work at the Theatre d'Art
and the Theatre de l'Oeuvre, capturing Maeterlinck's atmospherics through the
use of dim lights as well as the actors' monotone vocal delivery and slow or
measured movements. Claude Debussy composed the opera version of Pelleas
and Melisande (1892), and in 1909 Konstantin Stanislavsky produced the Moscow
:t:
VI
premiere of Maeterlinck's last significant work for the theater, The Blue Bird
oJ (1908). Yet following Maeterlinck's acceptance of the Nobel Prize for literature
o
aI
in 1911 , his influence waned. Perhaps under the adverse influence of his own
:t: essay "The Modern Drama:' his plays became more optimistic, or in any event
>-
VI more accessible, as they began to conform to dramatic convention. Never-
Z
theless, his early Symbolist dramas influenced a wide range of playwrights, in-

VI
cluding Strindberg, Wilde, Yeats, and Synge, in addition to serving as distant
VI
precursors of the Theater of the Absurd. He died on May 6, 1949, in Nice,
:::l
II:
,
France.
o
u
z

II:
II-
t


Evolution of European "Drama of the Interior"
Maeterlinck
n Interieur (1894) Maeterlinck created a powerful and haunting
1stage image to express his sense of the strangeness of ordinary
human life and the myste.ries which we usually prefer not to con-
template. He makes us look With new eyes at a quite ordinary family of
father, mother, and three children by the simple, brilliant device of
placing them behind glass in their commonplace house, so that we see but never
hear them. Our viewpoint is that of an Old Man and a Stranger who stand in a
corner of a garden looking into the lighted, curtainless room where the family
are sitting, noting every small movement and waiting for the moment when the
Old Man will have courage to go into the room and break the tragic news that
one of their daughters has been found drowned. We are involved, so to speak, in
a godlike position, seeing the pathos of the family's ignorant happiness, their
unawareness of the pitying and curious eyes upon them and of the future that is
already formed for them. Maeterlinck calls for a dreamlike effect in the move-
ments of the mute family; they should appear "grave, slow, apart, and as though
spiritualised by the distance, the light, and the transparent film of the window-
pane." He builds up subtle metaphysical implications through the situation of
watching and being watched. The eavesdroppers watch the parents, who are
watching their youngest child sleeping: they muse on the strangeness of this
recession and are prompted to reflect, "We too are watched." At such moments
the audience themselves, those other watchers, are drawn into the experience;
it may cross their minds to wonder whether in some other sense it might be said
of them also, "We are watched."
Although the people in the interior are so enclosed and separated, so un-
hearing and unseeing, they are allowed occasionally to have intuitions of what
lies in the dark outside. When the Old Man and the Stranger are speaking of the
drowned girl 's hair pathetically floating on the water, her two sisters move
uneasily in the room, their hair seeming to "tremble;' while at another moment
they are drawn to the window, where they stand looking into the garden as if
they had a sense of someone there. "No one comes to the middle window;' says
one of the watchers, and surely then we feel a shudder of apprehenSion, as
though a shadowy figure might slowly form there, the wraith of the drowned girl.
Although the family do not learn the news until the Old Man goes into the house
at the end of the play, delicate movements such as I have described suggest that,
as Maeterlinck might say, the soul is responding to invisible pressures on it; that
the interior can never be totally sealed off.
The play ends, indeed, with the family plucked out of the safe, lighted interior.
We see-though we do not hear-the Old Man breaking the news and the family
leaving the room by a door at the back of the stage. They will find there the body
Excerpted from Katharine Worth. "Evolution of European ' Drama of the Interior'; Maeterlinck,
Wilde, and Yeats," Maske und Kothurn: Intemationa/e Beilriige zur Theaterwissenschaft 15. 1-2 (1979):
161-70.

ofthe dead girl, but Maeterlinck supplies a stage direction which calls for an
unexpectedview. Whenthedooris thrownopen,whatweseeis amoonlitsky
with a lawn and fountain bathed in light; the momentofapprehending death is
associated notwith darkness butwith emergence into the light.Theeffective-
ness ofthis subtleendingdependsentirelyuponstagecraft,and especiallylight-
ing, for its realisation. Maeterlinckis in this sensea pioneerof"total theatre"
techniques. Interieur is a poeticdemonstrationofhowthephysical resourcesof
theatrecan be usedtotransmuteordinaryrealityand drawamysterious patina
overthesurfaceofthings,somakingusrealisethatitis onlyasurface.Seenin the
lighted frame, silently movingabouttheireveryday business, unawarethatthey
are being watchedfrom theirgarden by a messenger bringing tidings ofdeath,
thecharactersofInterieur do indeed seem toinhabit someotherdimension-
whichis theessenceoftheSymbolistaestheticorenterprisein drama.

u
z
Select Bibliography on Maeterlinck
oJ
a:
w
Halls,W. D. Maeterlinck: AStudy ofHis Life and Thought Oxford:OxfordUniversityPress,
I-
w 1960.

Knapp, BettinaL. Maurice Maeterlinck. Boston:Twayne, 1975.
:t:
Konrad, Linn Bratteteig.Modern Drama as Crisis: The Case ofMaeterlinck. NewYork: Pe-
terLang, 1986.
"<!' Mahony, Patrick.Maurice Maeterlinck, Mystic and Dramatist 2ded.Washington,D.C.: In-
"<!'
stitutefortheStudyofMan, 1984.
Worth,Katharine."Maeterlinckin theLightoftheAbsurd." In Around the Absurd: Essays
on Modern and Postmodern Drama, ed. Enoch BraterandRubyCohn, 19-32.Ann
Arbor:UniversityofMichigan Press, 1990.
--.Maeter!inck's Plays in Performance (bookandslideset).Cambridge,England:
Chadwyck-Healey, 1985.
Seealso Daniels;Deak; Lambert;Lilar; Mallinson; McFarlane;and Rose,in theGeneral
Bibliography.
Interior
Maurice Maeterlinck
In the Garden-
THE OLD MAN
THESTRANGER
MARTHA
MARY
APEASANT
THECROWD
In the House-
THE FATHER
THE MOTHER
THETWO DAUGHTERS
THECHILD
CHARACTERS
Granddaughters
}
oftheOldMan
Silent
)
personages
The interval that elapses between the occurrence of a disaster and the
breaking of the news to the bereaved is one full of tragedy; and here the
pathetic ignorance of the drowned girl's family and the painful knowledge of
the reluctant bearers of the evil tidings provide material for a touching little
play-slight material to all appearance, but in the hands of M. Maeterlinck
sufficient for the display ofa wealth ofkindly wisdom and sympathetic knowl-
edge of human nature.
An old garden planted with willows. At the back, a house, with three ofthe
ground-floor windows lighted up. Through them a family is pretty distinctly
Reprinted from The Nobel Prize Treasury, ed. Marshall McClintock; trans. William Archer
(NewYork: Doubleday, 1948), 203-9.

vis!ble, gathered for the evening round the lamp. The FATHER is. seate? at .the
chzmney comer. The MOTHER, resting one elbow onthe table, zs gazzng znto
vacancy. Two young girls, dressed inwhite, sit at their embroidery, dreaming
and smilinginthe tranquillity of the room. A child is asleep, his head resting
onhis mother's left arm. When one ofthem rises, walks, or makes a gesture, the
movements appear grave, slow, apart, and as though spiritualized by the
distance, the light, and the transparent film of the windowpanes.
THEOLD MAN and THE STRANGERenter the garden cautiously.
THE OLD MAN. Here we are in the part ofthe garden thatlies behind the
house.Theynevercomehere.Thedoorsareontheotherside.Theyare
closedandtheshuttersshut.Buttherearenoshuttersonthissideofthe
house,andIsawthelight...Yes, theyarestillsittingupinthelamplight.

U It is well that they have not heard us; the mother or the girls would
Z
perhapshavecomeout,andthenwhatshouldwe havedone?
..J
III::
W
THESTRANGER.Whatarewegoingto do?
I-
THEOLDMAN. Iwantfirsttoseeiftheyareall intheroom.Yes,Iseethefather
w
<
seatedatthechimneycorner. Heis doingnothing,hishandsrestingon
:t
hisknees.Themotheris leaningherelbowonthetable...
(!)
THE STRANGER. Sheis lookingatus.

THE OLD MAN. No, she is looking at nothing; her eyes are fixed. She can-
notsee us; we are in the shadow ofthe great trees. Butdo notgo any
nearer...There,too, arethedeadgirl's twosisters; theyareembroider-
ingslowly.Andthelittlechildhasfallenasleep.Itis nineontheclockin
thecorner...Theydivinenoevil ,andtheydonotspeak.
THE STRANGER. Ifwe were to attractthe father's attention, and make some
sign tohim?Hehasturnedhisheadthisway. ShallIknockatoneofthe
windows? Oneofthemwillhaveto hearofitbeforetheothers...
THE OLD MAN. Ido notknowwhich to choose ...We mustbevery careful.
The father is old and ailing-the mother too-and the sisters are too
young . . .And they all loved her as they will never love again. I have
neverseenahappierhousehold...No,no! donotgo upto thewindow;
thatwouldbetheworstthingwecoulddo. Itis betterthatweshouldtell
themofitas simplyas we can,as though itwerea commonplaceoccur-
rence;andwemustnotappeartoosad,elsetheywillfeel thattheirsorrow
mustexceedours,andtheywill notknowwhattodo...Letusgo round
totheothersideofthegarden.Wewillknockatthedoor,andgo inas if
nothinghadhappened.Iwill go infirst: theywill notbesurprisedtosee
me; I sometimes look in ofan evening, to bring them some flowers or
fruit,andtopassanhourortwowiththem.
THE STRANGER. Whydoyou wantmeto go with you? Goalone; Iwill wait
until you call me.They have never seen me-I am only a passerby, a
stranger...
THEOLD MAN. ItisbetterthatIshouldnotbealone.Amisfortuneannounced
byasinglevoiceseemsmoredefiniteandcrushing.Ithoughtofthatas I
came along ...IfI go in alone, I shall have to speak at the very first
moment;theywill knowall in afew words; Ishall have nothingmoreto
say; and I dread the silence which follows the last words that tell ofa
misfortune. It is then thatthe heart is torn. Ifwe entertogether, Ishall
go roundaboutto work; Ishall tell them, for example: "Theyfound her
thus, or thus ...She was floating on the stream, and her hands were
clasped..."
THE STRANGER. Her hands were notclasped; her arms were floating at her
sides.
THE OLD MAN. You see, in spite ofourselves we begin to talk-and the
misfortune is shrouded in its details. Otherwise, ifIgo in alone, Iknow
them well enough to be sure thatthevery first words would produce a
terrible effect, and God knows whatwould happen. Butifwe speak to
theminturns,theywill listento us,andwillforgetto looktheeviltidings ...
o
intheface.Donotforgetthatthe motherwill bethere,andthatherlife
.;:

hangsbyathread...Itis wellthatthefirstwaveofsorrowshouldwasteits .s
strength in unnecessarywords.It is wisestto letpeoplegatherroundthe t
unfortunate and talk as they will. Even the most indifferent carry off,
1:-

withoutknowing it, some portion ofthe sorrow. It is dispersed without

effortandwithoutnoise,likeairorlight...
THE STRANGER.Yourclothesaresoaked andaredrippingontheflagstones.
THE OLD MAN. It is onlytheskirtofmy mantlethathas traileda little inthe
water.You seemtobecold.Your coatis all muddy ...Idid notnoticeit
ontheway, itwasso dark.
THE STRANGER. Iwentintothewaterupto mywaist.
THE OLD MAN. Hadyoufound herlongbeforeIcameup?
THE STRANGER. Onlya few moments. I was going toward thevillage; itwas
already late, and the dusk was falling on the riverbank. I was walking
along with my eyes fixed on the river, because it was lighter than the
road, when I saw somethingstrange close by a tuft ofreeds ...I drew
nearer, and I saw her hair, which had floated up almost into a circle
roundherhead,andwas swayinghitherandthitherwith thecurrent...
(Inthe room the two young girls tum their heads towards the window.)
THE OLD MAN. Didyouseehertwosisters'hairtremblingontheirshoulders?
THE STRANGER. They turned their heads in our direction-they simply
turned their heads. Perhaps I was speaking too loudly. (The two girls
resume their former position. ) Theyhave turnedawayagainalready...I
wentintothewateruptomywaist,andthenImanagedtograspherhand
andeasilydrewhertothebank. Shewas as beautifulas hersisters ...
THE OLD MAN. Ithinkshewas morebeautiful ...Ido notknowwhyI have
lostall mycourage... -


THE STRANGER. Whatcouragedoyou mean?We did all thatmancoulddo.
Shehadbeendeadfor morethananhour.
THE OLD MAN. Shewas livingthis morning! Imethercomingoutof church.
She told me thatshe was going away; she was going to see hergrand-
motherontheothersideof theriverinwhichyoufoundher. Shedidnot
knowwhenIshouldsee heragain ...Sheseemedto beonthepointof
asking mesomething; thenIsupposeshe did notdare, andshe left me
abruptly. ButnowthatIthinkofit-andInoticednothingatthetime!-
shesmiled as peoplesmilewho wantto besilent, orwho fear that they
will notbeunderstood...Evenhopeseemedlikeapainto her;hereyes
wereveiled,andshescarcelylookedatme.
THE STRANGER. Somepeasants told me thattheysaw herwanderingall the
::.::
afternoononthebank.Theythoughtshewas lookingfor flowers ...Itis
u
Z possiblethatherdeath...
...J
II:
THE OLD MAN. Noonecantell ...Whatcananyoneknow? Shewas perhaps
W
one ofthose whoshrinkfrom speech, and everyone bears in his breast
I-
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morethanonereasonfor ceasingtolive.You cannotseeintothesoulas
cr:
I: youseeintothatroom.Theyarealllikethat-theysaynothingbuttrivial
things,andnoonedreamsthatthereis aughtamiss.You livefor months
by thesideofonewhois nolongerofthis world,andwhosesoul cannot

stoop to it; you answer her unthinkingly; and you see what happens.
They look like lifeless puppets, and all the time so many things are
passing in theirsouls. Theydo notthemselves know whattheyare. She
mighthavelivedas theotherslive. Shemighthavesaidto thedayofher
death: "Sir, or Madam, it will rain this morning," or, "We are going to
lunch;we shaH be thirteenattable," or"Thefruit is notyetripe."They
speak smilingly ofthe flowers that have fallen, and they weep in the
darkness. An angel from heaven would notsee what ought to be seen;
andmenunderstandnothinguntilafterall is over...Yesterdayevening
shewas there,sittinginthelamplightlikehersisters;andyouwouldnot
seethemnowas theyoughttobeseenifthishadnothappened...Iseem
to see her for the first time ...Something new must come into our
ordinarylife beforewe canunderstand it. Theyare atyoursideday and
night;andyoudonotreallyseethemuntilthemomentwhentheydepart
forever. And yet, what a strange little soul she must have had-whata
poorlittle, artless, unfathomablesoul she musthave had-tohave said
whatshemusthavesaid,anddonewhatshemusthavedone!
THE STRANGER. See,theyaresmilingin thesilenceoftheroom...
THE OLD MAN. They are not at all anxious-they did not expect her this
evening.
THE STr'RANGER. Theysitmotionlessandsmiling.Butsee,thefatherputs his
fingers to hislips ...
THE OLD MAN. Hepointsto thechildasleeponits mother'sbreast...
THE STRANGER. Shedaresnotraiseherheadforfear of disturbingit...
THE OLD MAN. Theyarenotsewinganymore.Thereis adeadsilence
THE STRANGER. Theyhaveletfall theirskeinofwhitesilk...
THE OLD MAN. Theyarelookingatthechild...
THE STRANGER. Theydonotknowthatothersarelookingatthem...
THE OLD MAN. We, too, arewatched...
THE STRANGER. Theyhave raised theireyes ...
THE OLD MAN. Andyettheycanseenothing...
THESTRANGER.Theyseemtobehappy,andyetthereissomething-Icannot
tellwhat...
THE OLDMAN. Theythinkthemselvesbeyondthereachof danger.Theyhave
closed the doors, and the windows are barred with iron. They have
strengthened the walls ofthe old house; they have shotthe bolts ofthe
threeoakendoors.Theyhaveforeseeneverythingthatcanbeforeseen...
THE STRANGER. Soonerorlaterwe musttell them. Someonemightcomein
and blurtitoutabruptly. Therewas a crowd ofpeasants in themeadow
..
.g
where we leftthe deadgirl-ifone ofthemwere to comeand knock at
.fl
thedoor...
.s
THE OLD MAN. MarthaandMaryarewatchingthe little body. Thepeasants
weregoingto makealitterofbranches,andItoldmyeldestgranddaugh-

tertohurryonandletus knowthemomenttheymadeastart.Letuswait
till she comes;shewill go with me....Iwish we had notbeenable to
watchtheminthisway. Ithoughttherewas nothingtodobutto knockat
thedoor, to enterquitesimply, and to tell all in afew phrases....ButI
havewatchedthemtoolong,livinginthelamplight. ...(Enter MARY.)
MARY. Theyarecoming,grandfather.
THE OLD MAN. Is thatyou?Wherearethey?
MARY. Theyareatthefootofthelastslope.
THE OLD MAN. Theyarecomingsilently.
MARY. Itoldthemto prayinalowvoice. Marthais withthem.
THE OLD MAN. Aretheremanyofthem?
MARY. The whole village is around the bier. They had broughtlanterns; I
badethemputthemout.
THE OLD MAN. Whatwayaretheycoming?
MARY. Theyarecomingby thelittlepath.Theyaremovingslowly.
THE OLD MAN. Itis time...
MARY. Haveyoutoldthem,grandfather?
THE OLD MAN. You canseethatwe have told themnothing.Theretheyare,
still sittingin the lamplight. Look, mychild,look: youwill seewhatlife
IS ...
MARY. Oh! howpeacefultheyseem! Ifeel as though Iwereseeingthemina
dream.
THE STRANGER. Lookthere-Isawthetwosistersgiveastart.
THEOLD MAN. Theyarerising...
THESTRANGER. Ibelievetheyarecomingto thewindows.
(At this moment one ofthe two sisters comes up tothe first window, the other to
the third; and resting their hands against the panes they stand gazing into the
darkness.)
THEOLD MAN. Noonecomesto themiddlewindow.
MARY.Theyarelookingout;theyarelistening...
THEOLD MAN. Theelderis smilingatwhatshedoesnotsee.
THE STRANGER.Theeyesofthesecondarefull offear.
THEOLDMAN.Takecare:whoknowshowfarthesoulmayextendaroundthe
body....(A long silence. MARY nestles close toTHEOLD MAN'S breast and
u

z
kisses him.)
MARY. Grandfather!
II:
W
THEOLD MAN. Donotweep,mychild;ourturnwill come. (A pause. )
I-
w
THE STRANGER.Theyarelookinglong....

I:
THE OLD MAN. Poorthings,theywouldseenothingthoughtheylooked for a
hundred thousand years-the night is too dark. They are looking this

o way; and itis from theothersidethatmisfortuneis coming.

to
THE STRANGER. It is well thattheyarelookingthisway. Something, Idonot
knowwhat,is approachingbywayofthemeadows.
MARY. Ithinkitis thecrowd;theyaretoofar offfor us toseeclearly.
THE STRANGER. They are following the windings of the path-there they
comeinsightagainonthatmoonlitslope.
MARY. Oh! howmanytheyseemto be. EvenwhenIleft,peoplewerecoming
up from the outskirts ofthe town. They are taking a very roundabout
way....
THE OLD MAN.Theywillarriveatlast, nonetheless.Iseethem,too-theyare
crossing the meadows-they look so small that one can scarcely dis-
tinguish themamongtheherbage.You mightthinkthemchildrenplay-
ing in themoonlight; ifthegirlssaw them, theywould notunderstand.
Turntheirbacksto itas theymay,misfortuneis approachingstepbystep,
and hasbeenloominglargerfor morethantwo hourspast.Theycannot
bid itstay; and those who are bringing it are powerless to stop it. It has
masteredthem,too,andtheymustneedsserveit. It knows itsgoal ,andit
takes its course. It is unwearying, and it has butone idea.Theyhave to
lendittheirstrength.Theyaresad,buttheydrawnearer.Theirheartsare
fullofpity,buttheymustadvance....
MARY.Theelderhas ceased to smile,grandfather.
THESTRANGER. Theyareleavingthewindows....
MARY. Theyarekissingtheirmother. ...
THE STRANGER.Theelderis strokingthechild'scurlswithoutwakeningit.
MARY. Ah! thefatherwantsthemto kiss him,too....
THESTRANGER. Nowthereis silence....
MARY.Theyhavereturnedtotheirmother'sside.
THESTRANGER.Andthefatherkeepshiseyesfixed onthegreatpendulumof
theclock...
MARY. Theyseemto beprayingwithoutknowingwhattheydo....
THE STRANGER. Theyseemto belisteningtotheirownsouls....(A pause.)
MARY. Grandfather,donottell themthisevening!
THE OLD MAN. You see,you arelosingcourage,too.Iknewyou oughtnotto
lookatthem.Iamnearlyeighty-threeyears old,andthis is thefirst time
thattherealityoflife has comehometo me.Ido notknowwhyall they
do appears to me so strange and solemn. There they sit awaiting the
night,simply, undertheirlamp, as we should underourown; andyetI
seem to see themfrom thealtitude ofanotherworld, becauseIknowa ..
.
littlefactwhichas yettheydonotknow...Is itso, mychildren?Tellme,

why are you, too, pale? Perhaps there is somethingelse that we cannot
.s
put in words, and that makes us weep? I did not know that there was
anythingsosad inlife,orthatitcouldstrikesuchterrorto thosewholook
..,

to
onatit. And evenifnothinghad happened, it wouldfrighten meto see
them sit there so peacefully. They have too much confidence in this
world.Theretheysit,separatedfromtheenemybyonlyafew poorpanes
ofglass. Theythink that nothingwill happen because theyhave closed
theirdoors,andtheydo notknowthatit is in thesoul thatthingsalways
happen,andthattheworlddoesnotendattheirhouse-door.Theyareso
secure oftheir little life, and do not dream that so many others know
more ofit than they, and that I, poor old man, at two steps from their
door,holdalltheirlittlehappiness,likeawoundedbird,inthehollowof
myoIdhands,anddarenotopenthem...
MARY. Havepityonthem,grandfather. ...
THE OLDMAN. We have pityonthem,mychild,butnoonehaspityonus.
MARY.Tell themtomorrow,grandfather; tell themwhen itis light,thenthey
will notbesosad.
THEOLD MAN. Perhapsyouareright,mychild....Itwouldbebettertoleave
all this in the night. And the daylight is sweet to sorrow.... But what
would theysay to us tomorrow? Misfortunemakes people jealous;those
uponwhomithasfallen wantto knowofitbeforestrangers-theydonot
liketoleaveitinunknownhands.Weshouldseemtohaverobbedthem
of something.
THE STRANGER. Besides, itis too latenow; alreadyIcanhearthe murmurof
prayers.
MARY. Theyarehere-theyarepassingbehindthehedges.(Enter MARTHA.)
MARTHA. Here I am. I have guided them hither-I told them to wait in the
road. (Cries of children are heard.) Ah! the children are still crying. I
forbade them to come, but they want to see, too, and the mothers would
not obey me. I will go and tell them-no, they have stopped crying. Is
everything ready? I have brought the little ring that was found upon her.
I have some fruit, too, for the child. I laid her to rest myself upon the
bier. She looks as though she were sleeping. I had a great deal of trouble
with her hair-I could not arrange it properly. I made them gather
marguerites-it is a pity there were no other flowers. What are you doing
here? Why are you not with them? (She looks in at the windows.) They
are not weeping! They-you have not told them!
THE OLD MAN. Martha, Martha, there is too much life in your soul; you
::It: cannot understand....
U
Z MARTHA. Why should I not understand? (After a silence, and in a tone ofgrave
..J
reproach.) You really ought not to have done that, grandfather ....
a:
w
f-
THE OLD MAN. Martha, you do not know ....
w
MARTHA. I will go and tell them.
<t
I:
THE OLD MAN. Remain here, my child, and look for a moment.
MARTHA. Oh, how I pity them! They must wait no longer. ...
CIl

U? THE OLD MAN. Why not?
MARTHA. I do not know, but it is not possible!
THE OLD MAN. Come here, my child ....
MARTHA. How patient they are!
THE OLD MAN. Come here, my child . ...
MARTHA (turning) . Where are you, grandfather? I am so unhappy, I cannot
see you any more. I do not myselfknow now what to do ... .
THE OLD MAN. Do not look any more; until they know all. .. .
MARTHA. I want to go with you ... .
THE OLD MAN. No, Martha, stay here. Sit beside your sister on this old stone
bench against the wall of the house, and do not look. You are too young,
you would never be able to forget it. You cannot know what a face looks
like at the moment when Death is passing into its eyes. Perhaps they will
cry out, too ... Do not turn round. Perhaps there will be no sound at all.
Above all things, if there is no sound, be sure you do not turn and look.
One can never foresee the course that sorrow will take. A few little sobs
wrung from the depths, and generally that is all. I do not know myself
what I shall] do when I hear them-they do not belong to this life. Kiss
me, my child, before I go. (The murmur of prayers has gradually drawn
nearer. A portion of the crowd forces its way into the garden. There is a
sound ofdeadened footfalls and of whispering.)
THE STRANGER (to the crowd ). StoJD here-do not go near the window. Where
is she?
A PEASANT. Who?
THE STRANGER. The others-the bearers.
A PEASANT. They are coming by the avenue that leads up to the door. (THE
OLD MAN goes out. MARTHA and MARY have seated themselves on the bench,
their backs to the windows. Low murmurings are heard among the crowd.)
THE STRANGER. Hush! Do not speak. (In the room the taller of the two sisters
. rises, goes to the door, and shoots the bolts.)
MARTHA. She is opening the door!
THE STRANGER. On the contrary, she is fastening it. (A pause.)
MARTHA. Grandfather has not come in?
THE STRANGER. No. She takes her seat again at her mother's side. The others
do not move, and the child is still sleeping. (A pause.)
MARTHA. My little sister, give me your hands.
MARY. Martha! (They embrace and kiss each other.)
...
THE STRANGER. He must have knocked-they have all raised their heads at
o
c
the same time-they are looking at each other.
...
III
..::
MARTHA. Oh! oh! my poor little sister! r can scarcely help crying out, too.
(She smothers her sobs on her sister's shoulder.)
CI:)

THE STRANGER. He must have knocked again. The father is looking at the
U?
clock. He rises... .
MARTHA. Sister, sister, I must go in too-they cannot be left alone.
MARY. Martha, Martha! (She holds her back.)
THE STRANGER. The father is at the door-he is drawing the bolts-he is
opening it cautiously.
MARTHA. Oh!-you do not see the . ..
THE STRANGER. What?
MARTHA. The bearers .. .
THE STRANGER. He has only opened it a very little. I see nothing but a corner
of the lawn and the fountain . He keeps his hand on the door-he takes a
step back-he seems to be saying, "Ah, it is you!" He raises his arms.
He carefully closes the door again. Your grandfather has entered the
room ... (The crowd has come up to the window. MARTHA and MARY half
rise from their seat, then rise altogether and follow the rest toward the
windows, pressing close to each other. THE OLD MAN is seen advancing into
the room. The two SISTERS rise; the MOTHER also rises, and carefully settles
the CHILD in the armchair which she has left, so that from outside the little
one can be seen sleeping, his head a little bent forward, in the middle ofthe
room. The MOTHER advances to meet THE OLD MAN, and holds out her
hand to him, but draws it back again before he has had time to take it. One
of the girls wants to take off the visitor's mantle, and the other pushes
forward an armchair for him. But THE OLD MAN makes a little gesture of
refusal. The FATHER smiles with an air of astonishment. THE OLD MAN
looks toward the windows. )
THE STRANGER. He dares not tell them. He is looking toward us. (Murmurs in
the crowd.)
THE STRANGER. Hush! (THE OLD MAN , seeing faces at the windows, quickly
averts his eyes. As one of the girls is still offering him the armchair, he at
last sits down and passes his right hand several times over his forehead.)
THE STRANGER. He is sitting down ... . (The others who are in the room also sit
down, while the FATHER seems to be speaking volubly. At last THE OLD MAN
opens his mouth, and the sound ofhis voice seems to arouse their attention.
But the FATHER interrupts him. THE OLD MAN begins to speak again, and
little by little the others grow tense with apprehension. All of a sudden the
=" MOTHER starts and rises.)
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MARTHA. Oh! the mother begins to understand! (She turns away and hides
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her face in her hands. Renewed murmurs among the crowd. They elbow
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each other. Children cry to be lifted up, so that they may see too. Most of
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the mothers do as they wish.)
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THE STRANGER. Hush! he has not told them yet. .. . (The MOTHER is seen to be

questioning THE OLD MAN with anxiety. He says a few more words; then,

<:!' suddenly, all the others rise, too, and seem to question him. Then he slowly

makes an affirmative movement of his head.)
THE STRANGER. He has told them-he has told them all at once!
VOICES IN THE CROWD. He has told them! he has told them!
THE STRANGER. I can hear nothing.. .. (THE OLD MAN also rises, and, without
turning, makes a gesture indicating the door, which is behind him. The
MOTHER, the FATHER, and the two DAUGHTERS rush to this door, which the
FATHER has difficulty in opening. THE OLD MAN tries to prevent the
MOTHER from going out.)
VOICES IN THE CROWD. They are going out! they are going out! (Confusion
among the crowd in the garden. All hurry to the other side ofthe house and
disappear, except THE STRANGER, who remains at the windows. In the
room, the folding door is at last thrown wide open; all go out at the same
time. Beyond can be seen the starry sky, the lawn, and the fountain in the
moonlight; while, left alone in the middle ofthe room, the CHILD continues
to sleep peacefully in the armchair. A pause.)
THE STRANGER. The child has not wakened! (He also goes out.)
CURTAIN
The Modern Drama
Maurice Maeterlinck
When I speak of the modern drama, I naturally refer only to those regions of
dramati c literature that, sparsely inhabited as they may be, are yet essentially
new. Down below, in the ordinary theatre, ordinary and traditional drama is
doubtless yielding slowly to the influence of the vanguard; but it were idle to
wait for the laggards when we have the pioneers at our call.
The first thing that strikes us in the drama of the day is the decay, one
might almost say the creeping paralysis, of external action. Next we note a
very pronounced desire to penetrate deeper and deeper into human con-
sciousness, and place moral problems upon a high pedestal ; and finally the
search, still very timid and halting, for a kind of new beauty that shall be less
abstract than was the old.
It is certain that, on the actual stage, we have far fewer extraordinary and
violent adventures. Bloodshed has grown less frequent, passions less tur-
bulent; heroism has become less unbending, courage less material and less
ferocious. People still die on the stage, it is true, as in reality they still must
die, but death has ceased-or will cease, let us hope, very soon-to be re-
garded as the indispensable setting, the ultima ratio, the inevitable end, of
every dramatic poem. In the most formidable crises of our life-which, cruel
though it may be, is cruel in silent and hidden ways-we rarely look to death
for a solution; and for all that the theatre is slower than the other arts to follow
the evolution of human consciousness, it will still be at last compelled, in
some measure, to take this into account.
Reprinted from Maurice Maeterlinck, The Double Garden, trans. Alfred Sutro (New York:
Dodd, Mead. 1904), 11 5-35.
Whenwe considertheancientandtragicalanecdotesthatconstitutethe
entire basis ofthe classical drama, the Italian, Scandinavian, Spanish, or
mythical stories that provided the plots, not only for all the plays of the
Shakespearian period, butalso-notaltogetherto pass over an artthatwas
infinitelylessspontaneous-forthoseofFrenchandGermanRomanticism,
we discover at once thatthese anecdotesare no longerable to offer us the
directinterestthey presented ata time when they appeared highly natural
and possible,ata time,when,atanyrate, thecircumstances,manners,and
sentiments they recalled were not yet extinct in the minds ofthose who
witnessedtheirreproduction.
II

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Tous, however,theseadventuresnolongercorrespondtoalivingandactual
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reality. Shouldayouthofourowntimelove, andmeetobstaclesnotunlike
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thosewhich,inanotherorderofideasandevents,besetRomeo'spassion,we
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need no telling thathis adventure will be embellished by none ofthe fea-
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tures thatgave poetryandgrandeurto theepisodeofVerona.Gonebeyond
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recall is the entrancing atmosphere ofa lordly, passionate life; gone the
brawls in picturesquestreets,theinterludesofbloodshedandsplendour,the
mysterious poisons, the majestic, complaisanttombs! And where shall we If)
'"

lookforthatexquisitesummer'snight,whichowes itsvastness,itssavour,the
veryappealthatitmakes to us, to theshadowofan heroic, inevitabledeath
thatalreadylayheavyuponit? DivestthestoryofRomeoandJulietofthese
beautifultrappings,andwe haveonlytheverysimpleandordinarydesireof
a noble-hearted, unfortunate youth for a maiden whose obdurate parents
denyhimherhand.All thepoetry, thesplendour,thepassionatelife ofthis
desire, resultfrom the glamour, the nobility, tragedy, thatare properto the
environmentwhereinithascometo flower; noris thereakiss, amurmurof
love, a cry ofanger, grief, ordespairbutborrows its majesty,grace, its hero-
icism,tenderness-inaword,everyimagethathashelpedittovisibleform-
from the beings and objectsaround it; for it is notin the kiss itselfthatthe
sweetness and beautyare found, butin the circumstance, hour, and place
wherein itwas given.Again, thesameobjectionswould hold ifwe choseto
imagine a man ofour time who should be jealous as Othello was jealous,
possessed ofMacbeth'sambition,unhappyas Lear; or,like Hamlet, restless
and wavering, bowed down beneath the weight ofa frightful and unrealis-
ableduty.
III
Theseconditionsnolongerexist.TheadventureofthemodernRomeo-to
consider only the external events which it mightprovoke-would notpro-
vidematerialforacompleofacts.Againstthisitmaybe urgedthatamodern
poetwho desires to putonthestage ananalogous poem ofyouthful love is
perfectlyjustifiedin borrowingfrom daysgonebyamoredecorativesetting,
one thatshall be morefertile in heroicandtragical incident. Granted; but
what can the result be ofsuch an expedient? Would not the feelings and
passions thatdemandfor theirfullest, mostperfectexpression anddevelop-
menttheatmosphereof today(forthepassionsandfeelingsof amodernpoet
must, in despite ofhimself, beentirelyandexclusivelymodern),would not
these suddenlyfind themselves transplanted to a soil where all things pre-
ventedtheirliving?Theynolongerbelieve,yetarechargedwiththefearand
hope ofeternal judgement. In their hours ofdistress they have discovered
newforces to clingto, thatseem trustworthy, human and just;and behold
them thrust back to a century wherein prayer and the sword decide all!
Theyhaveprofited, unconsciouslyperhaps,byeverymoraladvancewe have
made-andtheyaresuddenlyflungintoabysmaldayswhentheleastgesture
wasgovernedby prejudicesatwhichtheycanonlyshudderorsmile.Insuch
anatmosphere,whatcantheydo; howhopethattheytrulycanlive there?

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IV

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Butwe need dwell no further onthe necessarily artificial poems thatarise

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from theimpossiblemarriageofpastandpresent.Letus ratherconsiderthe
dramathatactuallystandsfor therealityofourtime, as Greekdramastood
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If)
for Greek reality, and the drama ofthe Renaissance for the reality ofthe
Renaissance.Itssceneis amodernhouse,itpassesbetweenmenandwomen
oftoday. Thenames ofthe invisible protagonists-thepassions and ideas-
arethesame,moreorless,as ofold.Weseelove, hatred,ambition,jealousy,
envy, greed; the sense ofjustice and idea ofduty; pity, goodness, devotion,
piety,selfishness,vanity,pride,etc.Butalthoughthe nameshave remained
moreorless thesame,howgreatis the differencewe find in theaspectand
quality, the extentand influence, ofthese ideal actors! Ofall theirancient
weapons notoneis leftthem, notoneofthe marvellous momentsofolden
days.It is seldom thatcries are heard now;bloodshed is rare, and tears not
oftenseen.Itis inasmall room, roundatable, closeto thefire, thatthe joys
and sorrows ofmankind are decided. We suffer, or make others suffer, we
love, we die, there in ourcorner;and it were thestrangestchanceshoulda
doororawindowsuddenly,for aninstant,fly open,beneaththe pressure of
extraordinarydespairor rejoicing. Accidental, adventitious beautyexists no
longer;thereremainsonlyanexternalpoetrythathasnotyetbecomepoetic.
Andwhatpoetry, ifwe probetotherootofthings-whatpoetryis therethat
doesnotborrownearlyallof itscharm,nearlyallofitsecstasy,fromelements
thatare wholly external? Last ofall, there is no longera God to widen, or
master, the action; nor is there an inexorable fate to form a mysterious,
solemn, and tragical background for the slightest gesture ofman; nor the
sombre and abundantatmosphere that was able to ennoble even his most
contemptibleweaknesses, hisleastpardonablecrimes.
Therestillabideswithus,itis true,aterribleunknown;butitissodiverse




and elusive, it becomes so arbitrary, so vague and contradictory, the moment
we try to locate it, that we cannot evoke it without great danger; cannot even,
without the mightiest difficulty, avail ourselves of it, though in all loyalty, to
raise to the point of mystery the gestures, actions, and words of the men we
pass every day. The endeavour has been made; the formidable, problematic
enigma of heredity, the grandiose but improbable enigma of inherent jus-
tice, and many others beside, have each in their turn been put forward as a
substitute for the vast enigma of the Providence or Fatality of old. And it is
curious to note how these youthful enigmas, born but of yesterday, already
seem older, more arbitrary, more unlikely, than those whose places they took
in an access of pride.
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Where are we to look, then, for the grandeur and beauty that we find no
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longer in visible action, or in words, stripped as these are of their attraction
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and glamour? For words are only a kind of mirror which reflects the beauty
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of all that surrounds it; and the beauty of the new world wherein we live does
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not seem as yet able to project its rays on these somewhat reluctant mirrors.
Where shall we look for the horizon, the poetry, now that we no longer can
OCJ
ID seek it in a mystery which, for an that it still exists, does yet fade from us the
moment we endeavour to give it a name?
The modern drama would seem to be vaguely conscious of this. Incapa-
ble of outside movement, deprived of external ornament, daring no longer to
make serious appeal to a determined divinity or fatality, it has fallen back on
itself, and seeks to discover, in the regions of psychology and of moral prob-
lems, the equivalent of what once was offered by exterior life. It has pene-
trated deeper into human consciousness but has encountered difficulties
there no less strange than unexpected.
To penetrate deeply into human consciousness is the privilege, even the
duty, of the thinker, the moralist, the historian, the novelist, and to a degree,
of the lyrical poet; but not of the dramatist. Whatever the temptation, he
dare not sink into inactivity, become mere philosopher or observer. Do what
one will, discover what marvels one may, the sovereign law of the stage, its
essential demand, will always be action. With the rise of the curtain, the high
intellectual desire within us undergoes transformation; and in place of the
thinker, psychologist, mystic, or moralist there stands the mere instinctive
spectator, the man electrified negatively by the crowd, the man whose one
desire it is to see something happen. This transformation or substitution is
incontestable, strange as it may seem; and is due, perhaps, to the influence
of the human polypier, to some undeniable faculty of our soul, which is
endowed with a special, primitive, almost unimprovable organ, whereby
men can think, and feel, and be moved, en masse. And there are no words so
profound, so noble and admirable, but they win soon weary us if they leave
the situation unchanged, if they lead to no action, bring about no decisive
conflict, or hasten no definite solution.
VI
But whence is it that action arises in the consciousness of man? In its first
stage it springs from the struggle between diverse conflicting passions. But
no sooner has it raised itself somewhat-and this is true, if we examine it
closely, of the first stage also-than it would seem to be solely due to the
conflict between a passion and a moral law, between a duty and a desire.
Hence the eagerness with which modern dramatists have plunged into all
the problems of contemporary morality; and it may safely be said that at this
moment they confine themselves almost exclusively to the discussion of
these different problems.
This movement was initiated by the dramas of Alexandre Dumas {tIs,
.:.:
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dramas which brought the most elementary of moral conflicts onto the
.:
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stage; dramas, indeed, whose entire existence was based on problems such as 2l
the spectator, who must always be regarded as the ideal moralist, would


never put to himself in the course of his whole spiritual existence, so evident
is their solution. Should the faithless husband or wife be forgiven? Is it well
0)
to avenge infidelity by infidelity? Has the illegitimate child any rights? Is ID
the marriage of inclination-such is the name it bears in those regions-
preferable to the marriage for money? Have parents the right to oppose a
marriage for love? Is divorce to be deprecated when a child has been born of
the union? Is the sin of the adulterous wife greater than that of the adulterous
husband? etc., etc.
Indeed, it may be said here that the entire French theatre of today, and a
considerable proportion of the foreign theatre, which is only its echo, exist
solely on questions of this kind, and on the entirely superfluous answers to
which they give rise.
On the other hand, however, the highest point of human consciousness
is attained by the dramas of Bjornson, of Hauptmann, and, above all, of
Ibsen. Here we touch the limit of the resources of modern dramaturgy. For,
in truth, the further we penetrate into the consciousness of man, the less
struggle do we discover. It is impossible to penetrate far into any conscious-
ness unless that consciousness be very enlightened; for, whether we advance
ten steps, or a thousand, in the depths of a soul that is plunged into darkness,
we shall find nothing there that can be unexpected, or new; for darkness
everywhere will resemble only itself. But a consciousness that is truly en-
lightened will possess passions and desires infinitely less exacting, infinitely
more peaceful and patient, more salutary, abstract, and general, than are
those that reside in the ordinary consciousness. Thence, far less struggle-or
at least a struggle of far less violence-between these nobler and wiser pas-
sions; and this for the very reason that they have become vaster and loftier;

for iftherebenothingmorerestless,destructive,andsavagethanadammed-
up stream, there is nothing more tranquil, beneficent, and silentthan the
beautifulriverwhosebankseverwiden.
VII
Again, this enlightened consciousness will yield to infinitely fewer laws,
admit infinitely fewer doubtful or harmful duties. There is, one may say,
scarcelyafalsehoodorerror,aprejudice,half-truthorconvention,thatisnot
capable ofassuming, that does not actually assume, when the occasion
presents itself, the form ofa duty in an uncertain consciousness. It is thus
that honour, in the chivalrous, conjugal sense ofthe word (I refer to the
honourofthe husband, which is supposed to suffer by the infidelity ofthe
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wife), that revenge, a kind ofmorbid prudishness, pride, vanity, piety to
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certaingods,andathousandotherillusionshave been,andstill remain,the
a::
unquenchablesourceof a multitudeofdutiesthatarestill regardedas abso-
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lutelysacred, absolutely incontrovertible, by a vast numberofinferior con-
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sciousnesses.Andtheseso-calleddutiesarethepivotofalmostall thedramas
I:
ofthe Romantic period, as ofmostofthose oftoday. Butnotone ofthese
sombre, pitiless duties thatso fatally impel mankind to death and disaster
g
can readily take root in the consciousness that a healthy, living light has
adequately penetrated; in such there will be no room for honour or ven-
geance, for conventions thatclamourfor blood. It will hold no prejudices
that exact tears, no injustice eager for sorrow. It will have cast from their
thronethegodswhoinsistonsacrifice,andthelovethatcravesfordeath.For
when thesun has entered into theconsciousnessofhimwho is wise, as we
mayhope thatitwill some day enterinto thatofall men, it will reveal one
duty, andonealone,which is thatwe shoulddo theleastpossibleharmand
loveothersasweloveourselves;andfrom thisdutynodramacanspring.
VIII
Let us considerwhathappens in Ibsen's plays. Heoften leads us far down
into human consciousness, but the drama remains possible only because
theregoes withusasingularflame,asortofredlight,which,sombre,capri-
cious-unhallowed,onealmostmightsay-fallsonlyonsingularphantoms.
And indeed nearlyall the duties which form theactive principle ofIbsen's
tragedies are duties situated no longer within, but without the healthy, il-
lumined consciousness; and the duties we believe we discover outside this
consciousness often come perilously near an unjust pride, or a kind of
souredandmorbidmadness.
Let it not be imagined, however-for indeed this would be wholly to
misunderstandme-thatthese remarksofmineinanyway detractfrom my
admiration for thegreatScandinavian poet. For, ifitbe true thatIbsen has
contributedfew salutaryelementsto the moralityofourtime, he is perhaps
the onlywriter for the stage who has caughtsightof, and set in motion a
new, thoughstill disagreeable poetry, which he has succeeded in
with a kind ofage, gloomy beauty, and grandeur (surely too savage and
gloomyfor ittobecomegeneralordefinitive);as heis theonlyonewhoowes
nothingto thepoetryoftheviolentlyillumineddramasof antiquityorofthe
Renaissance.
But, whilewe waitfor thetimewhenhumanconsciousnessshall recog-
nise more useful passions and less nefarious duties, for the time when the
world'sstageshallconsequentlypresentmorehappinessandfewertragedies,
therestillremains,inthedepthsof everyheartof loyalintention,agreatduty
ofcharity and justice that eclipses all others. And it is perhaps from the
struggle ofthis duty against our egoism and ignorance that the veritable
dramaof ourcenturyshallspring.Whenthisgoalhasbeenattained-inreal
.:.::
lifeasonthestage-itwill bepermissibleperhapstospeakof anewtheatre,a u
.::
theatreofpeace,andofbeautywithouttears.
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