LIST OF CHARACTERS:
ADAM: Adam Mickiewicz, poet
BALZAC: Honoré de Balzac, writer
SAND: George Sand, writer
CHOPIN: Frédéric Chopin, composer
PIERRE: Pierre Leroux, philosopher
MARGARET: Margaret Fuller, American journalist
SCENES OF ACTION: Paris, Rome, the Italian Alps
TIME OF ACTION: December 15, 1840–February 24, 1848
DURATION OF ACTION: Seven years, two months, and nine days
SCENE 3
GEORGE SAND’s apartment in Paris. A spacious and bright living room. ADAM, PIERRE and MARGARET are gathered uncomfortably around a table set in a simple but tasteful way. BALZAC enters, carrying a bundle of manuscripts.
BALZAC (to MARGARET): Bonjour, madame.
MARGARET: Bonjour.
BALZAC (to PIERRE): Honoré de Balzac.
PIERRE: Pierre Leroux.
BALZAC: How’s that?
PIERRE: Leroux.
BALZAC: Hello, Adam. How’s Poland? (Energetically) On its knees but not broken, eh? Where’s Sand?
ADAM: In the kitchen.
BALZAC (loudly): George!
SAND’s voice: Coming.
SAND enters, wiping her hands on her apron. BALZAC kisses her on the cheek.
SAND: Don’t make love to me—my stomach’s been upset, for some reason. I’m afraid it might be cholera . . .
BALZAC (hands her a manuscript): Here’s something for you, gifted one. Goriot, first chapters, sixth draft. Entirely authentic.
SAND: I’d rather you brought some wine . . .
BALZAC: Keep it, George, you’ll sell it for a great profit in a hundred years’ time. (Looks around.) When are you going to tell us what we’re celebrating here?
SAND: Haven’t even opened a book, and you’re asking for a climax.
BALZAC: Not a climax—a title. No pianist tonight?
SAND: In the kitchen. Making coffee. (Loudly) Frédéric, what’s taking you so long?
CHOPIN’s voice: Nearly there.
SAND: Let’s sit down, fellows. Adam, open the wine.
Everyone takes their seats around the table.
BALZAC: Are we going to eat something?
SAND: Later.
BALZAC: Lavish.
CHOPIN enters with a coffee tray. His movements are very slow, theatrical.
BALZAC: Think you’ll arrive on schedule, eh, Frédéric?
CHOPIN snorts, almost spilling the coffee.
SAND (rises): Give me the tray, please.
She takes the tray from CHOPIN and places it on the table. Both sit.
SAND: Fellows, this is Margaret. American, reporter for New-York Tribune, emerging writer, and fighter for women’s and Negroes’ rights. I presented you, Margaret, as a fighter for women’s and Negroes’ rights and also . . .
MARGARET: It’s fine, Aurore – I understood. (To the guests.) Hello.
BALZAC: Hello, Margaret.
SAND: Balzac . . .
BALZAC: De Balzac, if you will. A small thing, but an important one.
SAND: Single, but you’re no match for him. He’s only interested in aged aristocrats.
BALZAC: Not necessarily aged. But for the most part—yes, I’m inclined to mésalliance. (Nudges PIERRE with his shoulder.) I have this inclination.
SAND: The old Chopin you already know. He’s taken. Besides, he’s sensitive and frail, and calls for a lot of attention—you wouldn’t have the patience . . . Pierre Leroux—philosopher, thinker, reformer of Christianity, fighter for women’s emancipation, and my spiritual teacher.
BALZAC: So much in one man? . . .
SAND: Mickiewicz. Poet, professor—you’ve attended his lecture, so you’re already familiar with him . . . (Addressing everyone) We’re expecting one more guest. A very special one at that, and I’m going to let you guess who that is.
She puts sugar in her coffee. Stirs it for a long time.
BALZAC: Not Bonaparte, surely?
SAND: À propos, Frédéric attended the funeral. He said it was cold and crowded . . .
BALZAC: I dropped in myself as well . . .
SAND: A great deal of flags, illumination, and, naturally, tears. It was the Polish who cried the most.
CHOPIN: I didn’t say that . . .
SAND: How is your wife, Adam? You’re mysteriously quiet tonight.
ADAM: Getting better.
SAND: Because if you need a specialist in that area . . .
ADAM: Already found one.
Pause.
BALZAC: So who are we waiting for? Heine?
CHOPIN: Heine’s in the Pyrenees.
BALZAC: Delacroix, Berlioz? . . . I almost blurted—Niccolò . . .
SAND: You’ve read that nonsense?
BALZAC: Horrible.
SAND: Dreadful.
BALZAC: Imagine this, Margaret, a genius has died.
SAND (to MARGARET): Paganini.
BALZAC: And now they’re transporting him from one port to another, and they won’t let him be buried, and all because this depraved bishop declared him to be a devil. Only in Italy . . .
SAND: Marseilles denied him too. À propos, Margaret, Paganini sat in the same place you’re sitting now. Less than ten years ago.
BALZAC: And now he’s in the Mediterranean Sea. Rotting in his coffin and rocking on the waves.
Pause.
SAND: Pierre, don’t you like the coffee?
PIERRE: I can’t reach it.
SAND: Honoré, pass him the coffee.
BALZAC (hands a cup to PIERRE): So who are we waiting for? Liszt?
SAND: Liszt’s in Hungary.
BALZAC: I com-ple-tely for-got. Alas, our poor François has lost his mind. Playing around in a Hungarian folk costume. Learning their language . . .
CHOPIN: His language.
BALZAC: Explain this to me: the man’s thirty years old, and he hasn’t been taught to speak?
SAND: Honoré, we’re French . . .
BALZAC: George, all I know is that what he does is unnatural.
CHOPIN: The man wants to have a homeland . . .
BALZAC (with irony): That’s just wonderful, Frédéric.
CHOPIN: He felt an inner urge . . .
BALZAC: But he’s taking ventures with this urge. He’s crying, “I’m a Hungarian, I’m a Hungarian . . .”
SAND: See, Margaret, how complicated everything is in our Europe.
BALZAC: Everyone wants to be unique, to show off their costume . . .
SAND: Listen, I remembered something. To the point. I’ll say this in Lithuanian—correct me if need be, Adam.
BALZAC: He’s a Pole, after all . . .
SAND: Listen, Honoré. When Lithuanians sit down to drink—I don’t know what it is they’re drinking . . .
BALZAC: Something we wouldn’t like.
SAND: They raise their drinks, in whatever they’re poured into, and say: books wake us. And they drink. Imagine this, Margaret . . . Books wake us. We will be awakened in books.
BALZAC: This here, George, is your imagination.
SAND: It’s true. Frédéric’s Polish friends told me. What a nation! Drinking and wishing each other to be awakened in literature. Unbelievable. And you, Honoré, want to erase these differences.
CHOPIN: Is this true, Adam?
ADAM: One of the possibilities.
SAND (repeating with feeling): Books wake us . . .
ADAM: Būk means, in Lithuanian . . .
CHOPIN: Bóg is God in Polish.
BALZAC: This I can grasp. You drink and you insure yourself: if something happens, God will come to our aid. In this world or the next.
SAND: And yet, Adam, are you Lithuanian or Polish?
ADAM: Lithuanian by birth. But I am Polish. Broadly speaking.
MARGARET: And by your passport?
CHOPIN: By our passport, madam, we’re Russian.
SAND: They’re occupied.
MARGARET: I’m sorry. So sorry . . .
BALZAC: How many people live in Lithuania?
ADAM: Six million. More or less.
MARGARET: And cities? The biggest ones?
ADAM: Vilnius.
MARGARET: Only one?
ADAM: You might not have heard of the others.
MARGARET: At least I’ll hear of them now.
ADAM: Vitebsk, Gardin, Minsk . . .
MARGARET shakes her head—she hadn’t heard of them.
BALZAC: Six million—a lot.
PIERRE: Twenty-four of French . . .
BALZAC: Of French! La grande nation. What a comparison . . .
ADAM: Lithuanians are a binary nation.
SAND: What kind of nation?
ADAM: Two nations grown into one.
BALZAC: Where did all of them come from?
ADAM: The old ones, these “books wake us” fellows trace themselves back to the Great Flood.
BALZAC (with irony): Did they pretend to be animals? . . . Sneaking into Noah’s ark . . .
ADAM: Noah was not the only one. A few other families survived.
PIERRE: How?
ADAM: Leaping from mountaintop to mountaintop. When the floodwaters receded, they couldn’t find their way back and created the Lithuanian nation.
Pause.
BALZAC: Must have been light on their feet. From mountaintop to mountaintop . . .
ADAM: But it is, of course, a legend.
SAND: An appealing legend. Honoré, you should use it somewhere.
BALZAC: And what’s the truth? You see, George, I consider myself a realist.
ADAM: In truth, it’s an Indian colony.
BALZAC and SAND exchange glances.
BALZAC: Everything is clear. Adam is Indian.
ADAM (shakes his head): I’m a Slavic Lithuanian. Indian Lithuanians are short, oval-faced. Their eyes are small and lifeless. When you look at them, you can never tell what they think about you.
BALZAC: And the Slavic Lithuanians . . . Where did they come from?
ADAM: From the Indian Lithuanian explosion.
Pause.
SAND: How did they explode?
ADAM: Out of fury. Something must have annoyed them. A quiet little tribe suddenly bursting out . . .
BALZAC: On you?
ADAM: Over its borders. They came flooding the neighboring tribes, turned us into Lithuanians, and gave us our country. They’ve been growing crops since then, waiting for a new explosion.
BALZAC (with sympathy): Good Lord, everything is still so confusing in those parts, so unsettled . . . Poland sits inside Russia, Lithuania sits inside Poland, and Indians sit inside Lithuania, waiting for an explosion. You’d think the building were too tall—that is probably why it collapsed. At least we know one thing—Adam is not Polish.
ADAM: But I am Polish.
BALZAC: Same old story . . .
ADAM: I am Lithuanian in a narrow sense, and Polish in a broad sense.
CHOPIN: We might not be bound together by blood, but we are bound together by a cause—a beautiful and powerful Poland. Isn’t that so, Adam?
CHOPIN waits for ADAM to agree, but ADAM is not in the mood for high-sounding expressions.
SAND: À propos, Margaret, Adam saw Goethe once. (To ADAM) Margaret is translating Eckermann’s conversations with Goethe, and she’s going to write an introduction herself.
MARGARET (To ADAM): You saw Goethe?
ADAM: I had this honor.
MARGARET: And Goethe saw you?
BALZAC: Oh, no, he was already blind and short twelve fingers.
CHOPIN snorts.
SAND: Balzac, not everyone here approves of your vulgar humor.
ADAM (To MARGARET): I was introduced to Goethe as his Polish counterpart. It piqued his interest.
MARGARET: You?. . . A counterpart?. . .
ADAM: This is how I was introduced. . .
MARGARET stares at ADAM intensely. Becoming pale, she tries to stand up. She faints.
SAND (catches MARGARET): Water. Good Heavens, child, how will you write that introduction of yours . . . With this sensitivity to the material. She needs air . . . (PIERRE hands her a vase.) Here’s an ashtray.
BALZAC (offering his coffee cup): Let her sniff at this. It helps.
CHOPIN (opening a window): How is she, Aurore?
SAND: Recovering. (to MARGARET) Would you like to lie down?
MARGARET: It’s all right . . .
SAND: The servant’s room is unoccupied.
MARGARET: This happens to me sometimes. The vein . . .
She smiles, fans her face with her palms, trying to convince everyone this is all a trivial matter. Someone rings the doorbell.
BALZAC: The special guest?
SAND: Frédéric, will you let them in? (Summons the men to help her push the table.) Let us make some room for the guest. (The glasses wobble.) Careful with that . . .
CHOPIN leaves. Noise and curses are heard behind the door. SAND runs out of the room.
BALZAC (listens): Are they carrying a coffin?
PIERRE: What coffin?
BALZAC: Niccolò’s. Genoa didn’t take him, neither did Marseilles, but George did.
SAND enters.
SAND: A special guest, fellows. Right from the Mediterranean Sea.
BALZAC: What did I say . . . ?
The carriers bring in a piano. CHOPIN enters.
SAND: The customs officers of Palma held it under arrest for six months. Looking for the key that turns old Chopin here into a genius of pianism. (To the carriers) Put it here . . . Frédéric will show you what those idiots could not find. Don’t start without me, Chopin.
Sees the carriers off. CHOPIN lifts the piano’s lid, runs his fingers through the keys.
BALZAC: How did you get on over there?
CHOPIN: I thought I’d go mad. Dreariness, poverty, wind. There was nothing else to do but play and cough.
SAND (returns): What an island, fellows! Heaven on earth—everyone should go there. Valleys, mountains, lemon trees . . . Don’t start just yet, Chopin. (Takes a candlestick and a vase from the table.) Adam, keep me company.
SAND and ADAM crouch down and sit under the piano. They smoke.
SAND: Mallorcan sea, mountains, and wind in Frédéric’s live performance on an authentic instrument. Let us begin.
CHOPIN rubs his frozen hands and starts to play. A tender, wistful melody—this is his new composition created in Mallorca.
SAND (referring to the music): What do you think, Adam?
ADAM: Inconceivable.
SAND: Something entirely new, and yet nothing new to it . . . The same Chopin, but not the same. Chopin Chopin.
ADAM (admiring the music): He’s sucking on you, Aurore. Drinking from your talent.
SAND: Yes . . . I've brought up two children, and I’ll bring up the third one. An exceptionally beautiful bit is coming up . . . This is where he got mad at me for not letting him out onto the terrace Hear how powerful it is. The hatred.
The music acquires an ominous power, then tones down again, sinking into wistfulness.
SAND: I’ve probably reached the age where I want to give myself. For Chopin, I’m sacrificing everything I haven’t written yet. Let him grind me into music . . . And I give my writings to Pierre to edit. He’s a true prophet, Adam. You must befriend him. He’s a tremendously modern man. (On the music) Isn’t it wonderful?
ADAM: Inconceivable.
SAND: Yes.
She is conducting the music with her smouldering cigarette, her eyes closed.
ADAM: Are you interested in prophets?
SAND (immersed in the music): What?
ADAM: I have this man, Aurore. I want you to see him . . .
SAND: Is he interesting?
ADAM: Believe me . . .
SAND: What kind of man is he?
ADAM: A marshal . . .
SAND: The finale. (Conducting in sharp movements.) Ta ta ta-a-a-a, ta ta-a-a-a-a . . . (Throws a cigarette into a vase.) Bravo. (Claps.) Bravo to Mallorca, bravo to Chopin, bravo to the piano. (To the guests) Come here. The acoustics and the feelings are entirely different.
BALZAC, PIERRE and MARGARET stand up and sit under the piano.
BALZAC: So this turns out to be a royalist gathering. (Thumps on the piano.) And I thought of you as republicans.
SAND: Continue, Frédéric.
CHOPIN: The piano is out of tune.
SAND: Play something simple. Not anything genius.
CHOPIN plays “Mazurek Dąbrowskiego”.
BALZAC: Oh no, not this . . .
MARGARET: A cheerful melody.
BALZAC: This is politics, not a melody.
SAND: The way he improvises . . .
CHOPIN (singing combatively): Jeszcze Polska nie umaaar-łaaa, Kiedy myyy żyjeee-my ... Co nam obca moc wydaaar-łaaa, Sza-blą oood-bijeee-my . . . (Hits the keys.) Oh Lord, you are Russian if you can’t see how Poland is suffering.
BALZAC keeps glancing through the window, worried.
BALZAC: So this is the promised meal? I’ll close the window, at least . . .
SAND (stops him): Sit. The potatoes have not finished cooking yet.
CHOPIN (playing and singing): Marsz, maaar-sz, Dąbroooow-ski, do Polski z ziemi włooo-ski . . . (Hits the keys.) And if you can see—why do you allow it?
Pause.
BALZAC (singing): Allons en-fants de la Pa-triiiie, Le jour de gloire est ar-riv-ééé . . . If we’re choosing suffering, our own native one—the French one. (Sings.) Contre nous de la tyrannie, L'étendard sanglant est levééé . . .
CHOPIN accompanies him on the piano. Everyone sings “La Marseillaise”.
