Scene 4.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.)