Act IV: The Cadets of GasconyScene 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—dieOn 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. PlayOld 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-wreathsRise 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-dancingA bird-like minuet! O flute! RememberThat 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 longerThe piercing fife of camp—but ’neath his fingersThe 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.