The Father [irritated ]. The illusion! For Heaven's sake, don't say illusion. Please don't use that word, which is particularly painful for us..

The Manager [astounded ]. And why, if you please?

The Father. It's painful, cruel, really cruel; and you ought to understand that.

The Manager. But why? What ought we to say then? The illusion, I tell you, sir, which we've got to create for the audience . . .

The Leading Man. With our acting.

The Manager. The illusion of a reality.

The Father. I understand; but you, perhaps, do not understand us. Forgive me! You see . . . Here for you and your actors, the thing is only – and rightly so . . . A kind of game …

The Leading Lady [interrupting indignantly ]. A game! We're not children here, if you please! We are serious actors.

The Father. I don't deny it. What I mean is the game, or play, of your art, which has to give, as the gentleman says, a perfect illusion of reality.

The Manager. Precisely – !

The Father. Now, if you consider the fact that we [Indicates himself and the other five CHARACTERS.], as we are, have no other reality outside of this illusion . . .

The Manager [astonished, looking at his ACTORS, who are also amazed ]. And what does that mean?

The Father [after watching them for a moment with a wan smile ]. As I say, sir, that which is a game of art for you is our sole reality. [Brief pause. He goes a step or two nearer the MANAGER and adds. ] But not only for us, you know, by the way. Just you think it over well. [Looks him in the eyes. ] Can you tell me who you are?

The Manager [perplexed, half smiling ]. What? Who am I? I am myself.

The Father. And if I were to tell you that that isn't true, because you and I . . .

The Manager. I should say you were mad – ! [The ACTORS laugh. ]

The Father. You're quite right to laugh: because we are all making believe here. [To MANAGER.] And you can therefore object that it's only for a joke that that gentleman there [Indicates the LEADING MAN.], who naturally is himself, has to be me, who am on the contrary myself – this thing you see here. You see I've caught you in a trap! [The ACTORS laugh. ]

The Manager [annoyed ]. But we've had all this over once before. Do you want to begin again?

The Father. No, no! That wasn't my meaning! In fact, I should like to request you to abandon this game of art [Looking at the LEADING LADY as if anticipating her. ] which you are accustomed to play here with your actors, and to ask you seriously once again: who are you?

The Manager [astonished and irritated, turning to his ACTORS]. If this fellow here hasn't got a nerve! A man who calls himself a character comes and asks me who I am!

The Father [with dignity, but not offended ]. A character, sir, may always ask a man who he is. Because a character has really a life of his own, marked with his especial characteristics; for which reason he is always "somebody." But a man – I'm not speaking of you now – may very well be "nobody."

The Manager. Yes, but you are asking these questions of me, the boss, the manager! Do you understand?

The Father. But only in order to know if you, as you really are now, see yourself as you once were with all the illusions that were yours then, with all the things both inside and outside of you as they seemed to you – as they were then indeed for you. Well, sir, if you think of all those illusions that mean nothing to you now, of all those things which don't even seem to you to exist any more, while once they were for you, don't you feel that – I won't say these boards – but the very earth under your feet is sinking away from you when you reflect that in the same way this you as you feel it today – all this present reality of yours – is fated to seem a mere illusion to you tomorrow?

The Manager [without having understood much, but astonished by the specious argument ]. Well, well! And where does all this take us anyway?

The Father. Oh, nowhere! It's only to show you that if we [Indicating the CHARACTERS.] have no other reality beyond the illusion, you too must not count overmuch on your reality as you feel it today, since, like that of yesterday, it may prove an illusion for you tomorrow.

The Manager [determining to make fun of him ]. Ah. Excellent! Then you'll be saying next that you, with this comedy of yours that you brought here to act, are truer and more real than I am.

The Father [with the greatest seriousness ]. But of course; without doubt!

The Manager. Ah, really?

The Father. Why, I thought you'd understand that from the beginning.

The Manager. More real than I?

The Father. If your reality can change from one day to another . . .

The Manager. But everyone knows it can change. It is always changing, the same as anyone else's.

The Father [with a cry ]. No, sir, not ours! Look here! That is the very difference! Our reality doesn't change: it can't change! It can't be other than what it is, because it is already fixed for ever. It's terrible. Ours is an immutable reality which should make you shudder when you approach us if you are really conscious of the fact that your reality is a mere transitory and fleeting illusion, taking this form today and that tomorrow, according to the conditions, according to your will, your sentiments, which in turn are controlled by an intellect that shows them to you today in one manner and tomorrow . . . Who knows how? . . . Illusions of reality represented in this fatuous comedy of life that never ends, nor can ever end! Because if tomorrow it were to end . . . Then why, all would be finished.

The Manager. Oh for god's sake, will you at least finish with this philosophizing and let us try and shape this comedy which you yourself have brought me here? You argue and philosophize a bit too much, my dear sir.. You know you seem to me almost, almost . . . [Stops and looks him over from head to foot. ] Ah, by the way, I think you introduced yourself to me as a – what shall we say . . . – a "character," created by an author who did not afterward care to make a drama of his own creations.

The Father. It is the simple truth, sir.

The Manager. Nonsense! Cut that out, please! None of us believes it, because it isn't a thing, as you must recognize yourself, which one can believe seriously. If you want to know, it seems to me you are trying to imitate the manner of a certain author whom I heartily detest – I warn you – although I have unfortunately bound myself to put on one of his works. As a matter of fact, I was just starting to rehearse it, when you arrived. [Turning to the ACTORS.] And this is what we've gained – out of the frying-pan into the fire!

The Father. I don't know to what author you may be alluding, but believe me I feel what I think; and I seem to be philosophizing only for those who do not think what they feel, because they blind themselves with their own sentiment. I know that for many people this self-blinding seems much more "human"; but the contrary is really true. For man never reasons so much and becomes so introspective as when he suffers; since he is anxious to get at the cause of his sufferings, to learn who has produced them, and whether it is just or unjust that he should have to bear them. On the other hand, when he is happy, he takes his happiness as it comes and doesn't analyze it, just as if happiness were his right. The animals suffer without reasoning about their sufferings. But take the case of a man who suffers and begins to reason about it. Oh no! It can't be allowed! Let him suffer like an animal, and then – ah yet, he is "human"!