Tête-d'Or: A Play in Three Acts

The open fields at the end of winter.

Enter, at the back, simon agnel, dressed like a peasant. He bears upon his shoulder the body of a woman, and carries a spade.

Enter, in front, cébès, walking slowly.

Cébès: I stand here, Untaught, irresolute, A man new-born confronting things unknown. I turn my face towards the Future and the lowering arch of the sky. My soul is full of weariness! I know nothing. There is nothing I can do. What shall I say? What shall I do? How shall I use these hands that hang at my sides, these feet That bear me about as in a dream? Speech is but a noise and books are only paper. There is no one here but myself. And all that is about me, The foggy air, the rich fields, The trees, the low-lying clouds Seem to speak to me, soundlessly, to ask inarticulate questions. The ploughman Turns homeward with his plough. I hear its slow creaking. It is the time when women bring water from the wells. It is night.—What am I? What am I doing? For what do I wait? And I answer, “I do not know!” And in my heart there is a wild desire To weep or to cry aloud Or to laugh or leap in the air and wave my arms! “Who am I?” There are still some patches of snow. I hold in my hand a sprig of pussy-willow. For March is like a woman blowing a fire of green wood. —That the Summer And the dreadful day under the glare of the sun may be forgotten, O Nature, Here I offer myself to you! I know so little! Look at me! There is something that I need. But what it is I do not know and I could cry forever Loud and low like a child that one hears in the distance, like children left alone beside the glowing embers! O lowering sky! Trees, earth, darkness, night of rain! Look upon me! Grant my prayer! (He sees simon. Who is that? (He approaches him. Are you digging a drain? It is getting late.