Maurice Maeterlinck, The Intruder (L'Intruse), 1890, New York, (1894), 1911.

Translated by Richard Hovey.

The play was first performed at the Theatre d'Art in Paris as part of a benefit for Paul Gauguin and Paul Verlaine. The play includes the line:

Not to know where one is, not to know whence one has come, not to know whither one is going, no longer to distinguish midday from midnight, nor summer from winter. . . . And always that darkness, that darkness ! . . . I would rather not live. . . .

click here to go to that part of the text

which Thomas L. Sloan has pointed out parallels Gauguin's Where do we come from? What are we? Where are we going?

See Thomas L. Sloan, Paul Gauguin's 'D'ou venons nous? Que sommes nous? D'ou allons nous?': A Symbolist philosophical leitmotif," Arts Magazine, January 1979, pp. 104-109.

THE GRANDFATHER. (He is blind.)

THE FATHER.

THE UNCLE.

THE THREE DAUGHTERS.

THE SISTER OF CHARITY.

THE MAID-SERVANT.

The Intruder

[A gloomy room in an old chateau. A door on the right, a door on the left, and a small secret door in one corner. At the back, stained-glass windows, in which green is the dominant color, and a glass door opening upon a terrace. A big Dutch clock in a corner. A lighted lamp.]

Come here, grandfather. Sit under the lamp.

It seems to me it is not very light here.

Shall we go out on the terrace, or shall we stay in the room?

Wouldn't it be better to stay here? It has rained all the week, and the nights are damp and cold.

The stars are out, though.

Oh, the stars -- that makes no difference.

We had better stay here. You don't know what may happen.

We need have no more anxiety. She is out of danger.

I believe she is not doing well.

Why do you say that?

I have heard her voice.

But since the doctors assure us that we may be easy.

You know quite well your father-in-law likes to alarm us needlessly.

I do not see things as you do.

Then you should trust to us, who do see. She was looking very well this afternoon. She
is sleeping quietly now; and we are not going needlessly to poison the first pleasant evening fortune gives us. . . . It seems to me we have a right to rest, and even to laugh a little, without being afraid, this evening.

That is true; this is the first time I have felt at home, as if I were in my own household, since this terrible child-birth.

Once sickness enters a house, it is as if there were a stranger in the family.

And then, you see, too, outside the family, you can count on no one.

You are quite right.

Why couldn't I see my poor daughter to-day?

You know very well that the doctor forbade it

I do not know what to think.

It is useless to alarm yourself.

[Pointing to the door on the left] She cannot hear us?

We will not speak loudly enough; besides, the door is very thick, and then the Sister of Charity is with her, and will warn us if we are making too much noise.

[Pointing to the door on the right.] He cannot hear us?

No, no.

He sleeps?

I suppose so.

We ought to go and see.

He would give me more anxiety than your wife, this little fellow. It is several weeks since he was born, and he has hardly moved; he has not uttered a single cry yet; you would say he was a wax baby.

I believe he will be deaf, and perhaps dumb. - - That is what comes of marrying cousins. - - [Reproachful silence.

I am almost angry with him for the suffering he has caused his mother.

You must be reasonable; it is not the poor little fellow's fault. -- He is all alone in that room?

Yes; the doctor no longer allows him to remain in his mother's room.

But the nurse is with him?

No; she has gone to rest a moment; she has well earned it these last few days. -- Ursula, just run and see if he is asleep.

Yes, father.

[The three sisters get up, and go into the room on the right, hand in hand]

At what time is our sister coming?

About nine o'clock, I believe.

It is after nine. I would have liked her to come this evening; my wife was quite bent on seeing her.

She is sure to come. Is it the first time she has ever come here?

She has never entered the house.

It is very difficult for her to leave her convent.

She will be alone?

I think one of the nuns will accompany her, They cannot go out alone.

She is the Superior, though.

The rule is the same for all.

You are no longer anxious?

Why should we be anxious? There is no need to keep returning to that? There is nothing more to fear.

Your sister is older than you?

She is the eldest of us all.

I do not know what ails me; I feel uneasy. I wish your sister were here.

She will come; she promised to.

I wish this evening were over !

[The Three Daughters come in again]

He sleeps?

Yes, father; very soundly.

What shall we do while we are waiting?

Waiting for what?

Waiting for our sister.

You see nothing Coming, Ursula?

. [At the window.] No, father.

And in the avenue? You see the avenue?

Yes, father; it is moonlight, and I see the avenue as far as the cypress wood.

And you see no one, Ursula?

No one, grandfather.

How is the weather?

Very fine. Do you hear the nightingales?

Yes, yes !

A little wind is rising in the avenue.

A little wind in the avenue, Ursula?

Yes; the trees are stirring a little.

It is surprising that my sister should not be here yet.

I do not hear the nightingales any longer, Ursula.

I believe some one has come into the garden, grandfather.

Who is it?

I do not know; I see no one.

Because there is no one there.

There must be some one in the garden; the nightingales are silent all at once.

I hear no footsteps, though.

It must be that some one is passing near the pond, for the swans are frightened.

All the fish of the pond are rising suddenly.

You see no one?

No one, father.

But yet the pond is in the moonlight.

Yes; I can see that the swans are frightened.

I am sure it is my sister that frightens them. She must have come in by the little gate.

I cannot understand why the dogs do not bark.

I see the watch-dog in the back of his kennel. -- The swans are crossing to the other bank ! .

They are afraid of my sister. I will go and see. [He calls.] Sister! sister! Is it you?
-- There is no one there.

! am sure that some one has come into the garden. You will see.

But she would answer me.

Are not the nightingales beginning to sing again, Ursula?

! no longer hear a single one in all the fields.

And yet there is no noise.

There is a stillness of death.

It must be some stranger that frightens them, for if it were one of the household, they would not be silent.

There is one on the big weeping willow. -- It has flown away ! . .

Are you going to talk about nightingales all night?

Are all the windows open, Ursula?

The glass door is open, grandfather.

It seems to me that the cold comes into the room.

There is a little wind in the garden, grandfather, and the rose leaves are falling.

Well, shut the door, Ursula. It is late.

Yes, father. -- I cannot shut the door, father.

We cannot shut the door.

Why, children, what is the matter with the door?

You need not say that in such an extraordinary voice. I will go and help them.

We do not quite succeed in closing it.

It is because of the damp. Let us all push together. . . . There must be something between the doors.

The carpenter will set it right to-morrow.

Is the carpenter coming to-morrow?

Yes, grandfather; he is coming to work in the cellar.

He will make a noise in the house ! . . . .

I will tell him to work quietly.

[All at once the sound of the sharpening of a scythe is heard outside.]

[Startled.] Oh !

Ursula, what is that?

! don't quite know; I think it is the gardener! cannot see very well; he is in the shadow of the house.

It is the gardener going to mow.

He mows by night?

Is not to-morrow Sunday? Yes. I noticed that the grass was very high about the house.

It seems to me his scythe makes as much noise --

He is mowing near the house.

Can you see him, Ursula?

No, grandfather; he is in the dark.

It seems to me his scythe makes as much noise -

That is because you have a very sensitive ear, grandfather.

Iam afraid he will wake my daughter.

We hardly hear him.

! hear him as if he were mowing in the house.

She will not hear it; there is no danger.

It seems to me the lamp is not burning well this evening.

It wants filling.

I saw it filled this morning. It has burnt badly ever since the window was shut.

I think the chimney is dim.

It will burn better soon.

Grandfather is asleep. He has not slept before for three nights.

He has been very worried.

He always worries too much. There are times when he will not listen to reason.

It is quite excusable at his age.

God knows what we shall be like at his age!

He is nearly eighty years old.

Well, then, he has a right to be strange.

Perhaps we shall be stranger than he is.

One does not know what may happen. He is odd sometimes.

He is like all the blind.

They reflect too much.

They have too much time to spare.

They have nothing else to do.

And, besides, they have no amusements.

That must be terrible.

It seems they get used to it.

! cannot imagine that.

They are certainly to be pitied.

Not to know where one is, not to know whence one has come, not to know whither one is going, no longer to distinguish midday from midnight, nor summer from winter. . . . And always that darkness, that darkness ! . . . I would rather not live. . . . Is it absolutely incurable?

It appears so.

But he is not absolutely blind?

He can distinguish a strong light.

Let us take care of our poor eyes.

He often has strange ideas.

There are times when he is not amusing.

He says absolutely everything he thinks.

But formerly he was not like this?

No; formerly he was as rational as we are; he never said anything extraordinary. It is true, Ursula encourages him a little too much; she answers all his questions -

It would be better not to answer. It's a mistaken kindness to him. [Ten o'clock strikes.

[Waking up.] Am I facing the glass door?

You have had a good sleep, grandfather?

Am I facing the glass door?

Yes, grandfather.

There is no one at the glass door?

No, grandfather; I see no one.

I thought some one was waiting. No one has come, Ursula?

No one, grandfather.

[To the UNCLE and FATHER.] And your sister has not come?

It is too late; she will not come now. It is not nice of her.

I begin to be anxious about her.

[A noise, as of some one coming into the house]

She is here ! Did you hear?

Yes; some one has come in at the basement.

It must be our sister. I recognized her step.

I heard slow footsteps.

She came in very softly.

She knows there is sickness. .

I hear nothing more now.

She will come up immediately; they will tell her we are here.

I am glad she has come.

I was sure she would come this evening.

She is a long time coming up.

However, it must be she.

We are not expecting any one else.

I hear no noise in the basement

I will call the maid. We must know what to expect.

[He pulls the bell-rope.

I hear a noise on the stairs already.

It is the maid coming up.

It seems to me she is not alone.

It is because the maid makes so much noise. . . .

THE GRANDFATHER.

It seems to me she is not alone.

She is getting terribly stout; I believe she is dropsical.

It is time you got rid of her; you will have her on your hands.

I hear your sister's step!

I hear no one but the maid.

It is your sister ! It is your sister !

[A knock at the secret door.

She is knocking at the door of the private stairway.

I will go open it myself, because that little door makes too much noise; it is only used when we want to come up without being seen.

[He partly opens the little door; the MAID-SERVANT remains outside in the opening.]

Where are you?

Here, sir.

Your sister is at the door.

I see no one but the maid.

There is no one there but the maid. [To the MAID-SERVANT.] Who was it who came into the house?

Came into the house, sir?

Yes; some one came just now?

No one came, sir.

Who is it sighs so?

It is the maid; she is out of breath.

Is she crying?

Why, no; why should she be crying?

[To the MAID-SERVANT.] No one came in just now?

No, sir.

But we heard the door open !

It was I shutting the door, sir.

It was open?

Yes, sir.

Why was it open, at this hour?

I do not know, sir. I had shut it.

But then who was it opened it?

I do not know, sir. Some one must have gone out after me, sir.

You must be careful. -- Don't push the door; you know what a noise it makes !

But I am not touching the door, sir.

But you are. You push as if you were trying to get into the room.

But I am three steps away from the door, sir.

Don't talk quite so loudly.

Are you putting out the light?

No, grandfather.

It seems to me it is dark all at once.

[To the MAID-SERVANT.] You may go down now; but do not make so much noise on the stairs.

I did not make any noise on the stairs, sir.

I tell you, you made a noise. Go down softly; you will wake your mistress.

It was not I who made a noise, sir.

And if any one comes now, say that we are not at home.

Yes; say that we are not at home.

[Shuddering.] You must not say that !

.. . Except to my sister and the doctor.

When will the doctor come?

He will not be able to come before midnight.

[He shuts the door. A clock is heard striking eleven.]

She has come in?

Who, pray?

The maid.

Why, no; she has gone downstairs.

I thought she was sitting at the table.

The maid?

Yes.

Well, that's all that was lacking

No one has come into the room?

Why no; no one has come in.

And your sister is not here?

Our sister has not come. Where have your thoughts wandered?

You want to deceive me.

Deceive you?

Ursula, tell me the truth, for the love of God !

Grandfather! Grandfather! what is the matter with you?

Something has happened ! . . . I am sure my daughter is worse ! . . .

Are you dreaming?

You do not want to tell me ! . . . I see plainly there is something ! . . .

In that case you see better than we.

Ursula, tell me the truth.

But we are telling you the truth, grandfather !

You are not speaking in your natural voice.

That is because you frighten her.

Your voice is changed, - yours, too !

But you are going mad !

[He and the Uncle make signs to each other that the Grandfather has lost his reason.]

I hear plainly that you are afraid.

But what should we be afraid of?

Why do you want to deceive me?

Who thinks of deceiving you?

Why have you put out the light?

But the light has not been put out; it is as light as before.

It seems to me the lamp has gone down.

I see as well as usual.

I have millstones on my eyes ! Children, tell me what is happening here ! Tell me, for the love of God, you who can see ! I am here, al] alone, in darkness without end ! I do not
know who seats himself beside me ! I do not know what is happening two steps from me ! . . . Why were you speaking in a low voice just now?

No one spoke in a low voice.

You spoke in a low voice at the door.

You heard all I said.

You brought some one into the room.

But I tell you no one has come in !

Is it your sister or a priest? - You must not try to deceive me. Ursula, who was it that came in?

No one, grandfather.

You must not try to deceive me; I know what I know ! - How many are we here?

There are six of us about the table, grandfather.

You are all about the table?

Yes, grandfather.

You are there, Paul?

Yes.

You are there, Oliver?

Why, yes; why, yes; I am here, in my usual place. This is not serious, is it?

You are there, Genevieve?

Yes, grandfather.

You are there, Gertrude?

Yes, grandfather.

You are here, Ursula?

Yes, grandfather, by your side.

And who is that sitting there?

Where do you mean, grandfather? -- There is no one.

There, there -- in the midst of us !

But there is no one, grandfather.

We tell you there is no one !

But you do not see, any of you !

Oh, come now; you are joking.

I have no wish to joke, I can assure you.

Well, then, believe those that see.

[Undecidedly.] I thought there was some one. . . . I believe I shall not live much longer. . .

Why should we go to work to deceive you? What good would that do?

We ought clearly to tell you the truth.

What good would it do to deceive each other?

You could not live long without finding it out.

I wish I were at home !

But you are at home here !

Are we not at home?

Are you among strangers?

You are strange this evening.

It is you who seem strange to me:

Do you want anything?

I do not know what ails me.

Will you take anything?

Grandfather ! grandfather ! What do you want, grandfather?

Give me your little hands, my children.

Yes, grandfather.

Why are you all three trembling, my children?

We are hardly trembling at all, grandfather.

I believe you are all three pale.

It is late, grandfather, and we are tired.

You must go to bed, and grandfather too would do better to take a little rest.

I could not sleep to-night !

We will wait for the doctor.

Prepare me for the truth !

But there is no truth !

Then I do not know what there is !

I tell you there is nothing at all !

I would like to see my poor daughter !

But you know very well that is impossible; she must not be wakened needlessly.

You will see her to-morrow.

We hear no sound in her room.

I should be uneasy if I beard any sound.

It is very long since I saw my daughter. . . . I took her hands yesterday evening, but I could not see her I . . . I no longer know what she is becoming. . . . I no longer know how she is. . . . I am no longer familiar with her face. . . . She must have changed in these weeks ! . . . I felt the little bones of her cheeks under my hands. . . . There is nothing but the darkness between her and me, and all of you ! . . . This is not life this is not living ! . . . You sit there, all of you, with open eyes that look at my dead eyes, and not one of you has pity ! . . . I do not know what ails me. . . . No one tells what ought to be told me. . . . And everything is terrifying when you dream of it ! . . . But why do you not speak?

What would you have us say, since you will not believe us?

You are afraid of betraying yourselves !

Do be reasonable now.

For a long time something has been hidden from me here ! . . . Something has happened in the house. . . . But I begin to understand now. . . . I have been deceived too long ! -- You think, then, that I shall never find out anything? -- There are moments when I am less blind than you, you know ! . . . Have I not heard you whispering, for days and days, as if you were in the house of some one who had hanged himself? -- I dare not say what I know this evening. . . . But I will know the truth ! I shall wait for you to tell me the truth; but I have known it for a long time, in spite of you ! And now, I feel that you are all as pale as the dead !

Grandfather ! grandfather ! What is the matter, grandfather?

It is not of you that I speak, my children; no, it is not of you that I speak. . . . I know quite well you would tell me the truth, jf they were not by ! . . . And besides, I am sure they are deceiving you also. . . . You will see, children, you will see ! . . . Do I not hear all three of you sobbing?

For my part, I will not stay here.

Can my wife really be so ill?

You need not try to deceive me any longer; it is too late now, and I know the truth better than you ! . . .

But after all we are not blind, are we?

Would you like to go into your daughter's room? There is a mistake here and a misunderstanding that should end. -- Would you? . . .

No, no; not now . . . not yet. . . .

You see plainly, you are not reasonable.

One never knows all that a man has been unable to say in his life ! . . . Who was it made that noise?

It is the flickering of the lamp, grandfather.

It seems to me it is very unsteady -- very unsteady.

It is the cold wind that vexes it . . . it is the cold wind that vexes it. . . .

There is no cold wind, the windows are shut.

I think it is going out.

The oil must be out.

It has gone entirely out.

We cannot stay like this in the dark.

Why not? I am already accustomed to it.

There is a light in my wife's room.

We will take it by and by, when the doctor has come.

It is true, we see well enough; there is light from outside.

Is it light outside?

Lighter than here.

For my part, I would as soon talk in the dark.

So would I.[Silence.]

It seems to me the clock makes such a noise ! . . .

That is because we are not speaking now, grandfather.

But why are you all silent?

Of what would you have us speak? - You are not in earnest to-night.

Is it very dark in the room?

It is not very light.[Silence.]

I do not feel well, Ursula; open the window a little.

Yes, daughter; open the window a little; I begin to feel the want of air myself.

[The girl opens the window.

I positively believe we have stayed shut up too long.

Is the window open, Ursula?

Yes, grandfather; it is wide open.

One would not have said it was open; there is not a sound outside.

No, grandfather; there is not the least sound.

The silence is extraordinary !

One could hear an angel's step.

That is the reason I do not like the country.

I wish I could hear some sound. What time is it, Ursula?

Almost midnight, grandfather.

[Here the Uncle begins to walk up and down the room.]

Who is it walking around like that?

It is I! it is I! Do not be frightened! I feel the need of walking a little. [Silence.] But I am going to sit down again, - I do not see where I am going. [Silence.]

I wish I were somewhere else !

Where would you like to go, grandfather?

I do not know where, -- into another room -- no matter where ! no matter where ! . . .

Where should we go?

It is too late to go anywhere else.

[Silence. They are sitting motionless, round the table.]

What is that I hear, Ursula?

Nothing, grandfather; it is the leaves falling. Yes, it is the leaves falling on the terrace.

Go shut the window, Ursula.

Yes, grandfather.

[She shuts the window, comes back, and sit. down.]

I am cold. Silence. The three sisters kiss each other.] What is it I hear now?

It is the three sisters kissing each other.

It seems to me they are very pale this evening.[Silence.]

What is it I hear flow, Ursula?

Nothing, grandfather; it is the clasping of my hands.[Silence.]

What is it I hear? what is it I hear, Ursula?

I do not know, grandfather; perhaps my sisters -- they are trembling a little.

I am afraid, too, my children.

[Here a ray of moonlight penetrates through a corner of the stained glass, and spreads strange gleams here and there in the room. Midnight strikes, and at the last stroke it seems to some that a sound is heard, very vaguely, as of some one rising in all haste.]

[Shuddering with peculiar horror.] Who is it that rose?

No one rose !

I did not rise !

Nor I! . . . Nor I! . . . Nor I!

Some one rose ftom the table !

Light the lamp !

[Here suddenly a wail of fright is heard in the child's room, on the right; and this wail continues, with gradations of terror until the end of the scene.]

Listen ! the child!

He has never cried before!

Let us go and look!

The light! The light!

[At this moment a hurrying of headlong heavy steps is heard in the room on the left. - Then a deathly stillness. -- They listen in a dumb terror, until the door opens slowly, and the light from the next room falls into that in which they are waiting. The Sister of Charity appears on the threshold, in the black garments of her order, and bows as she makes the sign of the cross, to announce the death of the wife. They understand, and, after a moment of hesitation and fright, silently enter the chamber of death, while the Uncle politely effaces himself at the doorstep, to let the three young girls pass. The blind man, left alone, rises and gropes excitedly about the table in the darkness.

Where are you going? -- Where are you going? -- My children ! -- They have left me all alone !