Leave us to live, or
leave us to die when we like in the free air. If you do not wish of
us, you have but to shut your pockets and--your doors--we shall die
the faster.
WELLWYN. [With agitation.] But that, you know--we can't do--now
can we?
FERRAND. If you cannot, how is it our fault? The harm we do to
others--is it so much? If I am criminal, dangerous--shut me up!
I would not pity myself--nevare. But we in whom something moves--
like that flame, Monsieur, that cannot keep still--we others--we are
not many--that must have motion in our lives, do not let them make
us prisoners, with their theories, because we are not like them--it
is life itself they would enclose! [He draws up his tattered
figure, then bending over the fire again.] I ask your pardon; I am
talking. If I could smoke, Monsieur!
[WELLWYN hands him a tobacco pouch; and he rolls a cigarette
with his yellow-Stained fingers.]
FERRAND. The good God made me so that I would rather walk a whole
month of nights, hungry, with the stars, than sit one single day
making round business on an office stool! It is not to my
advantage. I cannot help it that I am a vagabond. What would you
have? It is stronger than me. [He looks suddenly at WELLWYN.]
Monsieur, I say to you things I have never said.
WELLWYN. [Quietly.] Go on, go on. [There is silence.]
FERRAND. [Suddenly.] Monsieur! Are you really English? The
English are so civilised.
WELLWYN.
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