AUNT CLARA (with increasing excitement). I never set nobody against no one! Nobody ever said such a thing about me! God knows! You are the first person to do that! And on top of it all, I have the best intentions! I even want to help you! Well, I do say ...! (Takes several steps through the hall.)

HELLA (with contemptuous laughter). You help me?... H'm! You wanted to get rid of me, and that is why you started all this about the estate, and staying here, and who knows what else. But I declare to you, once and for all! Don't go to any trouble! You will not succeed in parting Paul and me!

AUNT CLARA (in spite of herself). May be not I!

HELLA. Not you?... Oh indeed!... Not you!

AUNT CLARA (continuing in her anger). No! Not I! Of course not! Even if you have deserved it, ten times over!

HELLA (also continues her lead). Not you?... Well, well! So it's some other woman! (She steps up before AUNT CLARA.) Some other woman is trying to separate us, Paul and me? Is that it? Yes or no?

AUNT CLARA (frightened). I haven't said a thing. I know nothing about it.

HELLA (triumphantly). I thought so! And now I grasp the whole situation!... That accounts for Paul's behavior, this strange behavior! Well, well! (She walks to and fro excitedly, speaks partly to herself.) But you shall not succeed! No, no! (Addressing AUNT CLARA again.) You shall not succeed! We'll just see who knows Paul better, you or I!

AUNT CLARA (very seriously). Madam, I am an old woman, you may believe me or not, I tell you, don't carry matters too far with Paul!

HELLA (reflecting again). So it was she?... The Polish woman, of course! Didn't I know it?

AUNT CLARA (almost threatening). Don't carry matters too far! Remember what I say.

HELLA (with a sudden change). Where is Paul?

AUNT CLARA (anxiously). What is the matter?

HELLA (very calmly and firmly). I must speak to Paul.

AUNT CLARA. Merciful God! Now I see it coming!

HELLA. Yes, I am going away and Paul is going with me. That is the end of the whole matter. I suppose that is not just exactly what you had expected.

AUNT CLARA (petrified). And you are going to desert Ellernhof!

HELLA. It will be a long time before the estate sees us again. Prepare for that. As for the rest, we shall see later.

AUNT CLARA (turns away). Then I might as well order my grave at once, the sooner the better.

HELLA (with an air of superiority). Don't worry! You will be cared for.

AUNT CLARA (straightening up). Not a soul needs to care for me henceforth, madam! My way is quite clear to me. It will not be very long. Look at the men and women on these walls, they all followed this course. Now I shall emulate their example. What is coming now is no longer suitable for me. (She slowly steps to the door with head bowed).

HELLA (partly to herself). No, what is coming now is the new world and new men and women! (She stands and reflects for a moment, then resolutely.) New men and women! Yes! Yes, we are ready to fight for that! (She clasps her hands vigorously, suggesting inflexible resolution.)

PAUL (enters from the right, comes upon AUNT CLARA, who is going out). What ails you, Auntie? How you do look!

AUNT CLARA (shakes her head). Don't ask me, my boy. I have lived my life! (She goes out slowly and closes the door.)

PAUL (steps to the fireplace pondering deeply and drops down in a chair). What did she say?... Lived my life?... A soothing phrase! A cradle-song! No more pain, no more care! All over!... Lived my life! (Supports his head on his hand.)

[Short pause.]

HELLA (steps up to PAUL, lays her hand on his shoulder and says kindly). Paul!

PAUL. And?

HELLA. Be a man, Paul! I beg of you.

PAUL (looks up, with a deep breath). That is just what I intend to do.

HELLA. For two days you have been walking around without saying a word. That surely cannot continue.

PAUL. That will not continue, I am sure.

HELLA. Why don't you speak? What have I done to you?

PAUL (bitterly). You to me?... Nothing.

HELLA. See here, Paul, I stayed here on your account, longer than I had intended and than seems justifiable to me.

PAUL. Why did you? I did not ask you again.

HELLA. Quite right. I did it of my own accord. Now don't you think that counts for more, Paul? (She closely draws up a chair and sits down facing PAUL.)

PAUL. Up to the day before yesterday anything would have counted with me. Today no longer, Hella!

HELLA (eagerly). I remained because I kept in mind that it might be agreeable to you to have me near you. I have given you time to come to yourself again. I know very well what is going on in you.

PAUL. Hardly!

HELLA. Indeed, Paul, indeed! You have seen the soil of your boyhood home again. You have buried your father. I understand your crisis completely.

PAUL. Really! All at once!

HELLA. From the very beginning!

PAUL. I did not realize very much of it!

HELLA (interrupting him). Simply because I thought it would be best to let you settle that for yourself. That is why I have not interfered; allowed you to go your own way, these days. (PAUL shrugs his shoulders and is silent.) Does all this fail to convince you?

PAUL (distressed). Drop that, Hella.

HELLA (excited). What does this mean, Paul! We must have an understanding!

PAUL. That is no longer possible for us, Hella!

HELLA. It certainly has been, up to the present. How often we have quarreled in these years, and sailed into each other, and we have always found our way back to each other again for the simple reason that we belong together! Why in the world should that be impossible now?

PAUL (struggles with himself; jumps up). Because ... Because ... (Groping for words.)

HELLA (has become calm). Well, because?... Possibly because I did not care to stay down here, day before yesterday, did not dine with your guests when you asked me to do so? Is that it?

PAUL. That and many other things.

HELLA (gets up). Paul, don't be petty! I really can't bear to hear you talk in this manner. Are you so completely unable to enter into my feelings? I could not share your sorrow. Your father did not give me any occasion for that. I do not wish to speak ill of him, but I cannot forget it. After all, that is only human!

PAUL. So the dead man stands between us. Why don't you say so frankly!

HELLA. If you insist, yes. At least, for the moment! I was not able to stay with you. I had to be alone.

PAUL. Then blame yourself for the consequences! You deserted me at a moment when simply everything was unsettling me ...

HELLA (interrupts him). Oh, you suppose I don't know what you mean?

PAUL (excited). Well?

HELLA. Shall I tell you?

PAUL (controlling himself with difficulty). Please!

HELLA (triumphantly). Dear Paul! Just recall the lady with the ashy-blonde hair, for a moment!

PAUL (embarrassed). What lady?

HELLA. Why, Paul? The one with whom I saw you after the banquet, day before yesterday. Your aunt was there too, wasn't she?

PAUL (affecting surprise). You seem to refer to Madam von Laskowski.

HELLA (smiling). Quite right. The Polish beauty! Was it not that?

PAUL (beside himself). Hella?

HELLA (as before). Don't become furious, Paul! There's no occasion at all for that! I am not reproaching you in the least! On the contrary, I am of the opinion that you were quite right!

PAUL (comes nearer, plants himself before her). What are you trying to say? What does all this mean?

HELLA (with a very superior air). We had quarreled, you were furious, wanted to revenge yourself, looked about for a fitting object and naturally hit upon ... whom?

PAUL (turns away). Why it's simply idiotic to continue answering such questions! (He walks through the hall excitedly.)

HELLA. Hit upon whom?... With the kind of taste that you do seem to have ...

PAUL. Hella, I object to that!

HELLA. Why, I am absolutely serious, Paul! You can't expect me to question your taste! I should compromise my own position. No, no, I really agree with you, of all those present she was decidedly the most piquant. The typical beauty that appeals to men! Of course you hit upon her, probably courted her, lavished compliments upon her, all the things that you men do when you suppose that you are in the presence of an inferior woman ...

PAUL. Hella, now restrain yourself! Or I may tell you something ...

HELLA. Very well, let us even suppose that you fell in love with her for the time and she with you, that you went into ecstasy over each other and turned each other's heads, then you parted and the next day the intoxication passed off, and, if not on the next day, then on the following one ... Am I not right? Do you expect me to be jealous of such a thing as that? No, Paul!

PAUL (in supreme excitement, struggling with himself). You are a demon! A demon!

HELLA (has become serious). I am your friend, Paul! Believe me! I desire nothing but your own good, simply because I care for you and because, I'll be frank with you, I should not want to lose you. You may be convinced of it, Paul, conceited as it may sound, but you will never find another woman like me! One with whom you can share everything! I don't know what you may have said to the Polish woman or what she may have said to you, but do you really suppose that she still knows about that today, even though the most fervent vows were exchanged?

PAUL (jumps up). Hella, Hella, you do not know what you are saying.

HELLA. Would you teach me to know my own sex? They aren't all like me, dear Paul. You have been spoiled by me. Very few, indeed, have attained maturity as yet, or even know what they are doing. You can depend upon very few of them. It seems to me that we are in the best possible position to know that, Paul, after our years of work. And I am to fear such competition? Expect me to be jealous of a Polish country beauty? Me,—Hella Bernhardy!... No, Paul, I have been beyond that type of jealousy for some time! (She walks up and down slowly.)

PAUL (stands at the window, struggling with himself). Would it not be better to say that you have never had it?

HELLA. Possibly! There are some who consider that an advantage.

PAUL. Theorists, yes! The kind that I was, once upon a time. But now I know better! Now I know that the absence of jealousy was nothing but an absence of love.

HELLA (energetically). That is not true, Paul. I always cared for you!

PAUL. Cared! Cared! A fine word!

HELLA, Why should you demand more than that? I respected you, Paul, valued you as my best friend!

PAUL. All but a little word, a little word ...

HELLA. What is that?

PAUL. Imagine!

HELLA. I know what you are thinking of! I am not a friend of strong words, but if you insist upon hearing it, I have loved you too!

PAUL. You ... me!

HELLA. Yes, I have loved you, Paul, for what you were, the unselfish idealist ...

PAUL (bitterly). Oh, indeed!

HELLA. Yes, Paul! Do not forget about one thing! I am not one of these petty little women, to whom men are the alpha and omega! If you assumed that, of course you have been mistaken.

PAUL. To be sure! And the mistake has cost me my life!

HELLA. You knew it beforehand, Paul!

PAUL. Because I was blinded!

HELLA, And yet I tell you, say what you please, leave me for instance, but you will not find another woman who can satisfy you after you have had me! I know it and will stake my life on it!

PAUL. Do you rate yourself so highly?

HELLA. I am rating you highly, Paul!

PAUL (wavering). Do you mean to say I am ruined for happiness?... Possibly you are right.

HELLA. Whoever has once become accustomed to the heights of life, will never again descend.

PAUL (repeats to himself). Will never again descend.

HELLA. You are too good for a woman of the dead level! See here, Paul, I have at times made life a burden to you, I now and then refused to enter upon many things just because my head was full of ideas, possibly I have been too prone to disregard your emotional nature.

PAUL. Hella, do not remind me of that!

HELLA. We must come to an understanding, Paul! All of that may be true. And there shall be a change. There will be a change, that much I promise you today, but show me the kindness, pack your things and come with me! Today rather than tomorrow! (She has stepped up to him and places her hands on his shoulders.)

PAUL (in the most violent conflict). Hella! Hella!

HELLA. Look into my face, Paul! Are you happy here?

PAUL (lowers his head). Do not ask me, Hella!

HELLA (triumphantly). Then you are not! Didn't I know it? I am proud of you for that, Paul!

PAUL (blurting out). Hella, do not exult! I cannot go back again!

HELLA (undaunted). Yes you can! Are these people here meant for you? Do you mean to say that you are suited to these peasants? You, with your refined instincts? You would think of degrading yourself consciously! Nobody can do that, you least of all! I tell you once more, you are too good for these rubes!

PAUL, (frees himself from her). Give me time till this evening, Hella! Then I will give you a full explanation!

HELLA (seizes his hand). Not thirty minutes, Paul! You are to decide at once! As I have you at this moment, I shall possibly never have you again. Pack your trunk and come with me! Have some one manage the estate. We will go back tomorrow morning and begin the new life with the new year. Thank your stars when you are once more out of this stuffy air. It induces thoughts in you that can never make you happy. Say yes, Paul, say that we are going!

PAUL (has not listened to the last words, listens to what is going on outside). Do you hear, Hella? (He frees himself and goes to the foreground. One can hear people singing outside, accompanied by a deep-toned instrument.)

HELLA (impatiently). What in the world is that!

PAUL. I have an idea, the people of the estate, coming to proclaim Saint Sylvester, (The door at the right is opened.)

GLYSZINSKI (enters, makes a sign suggesting silence, points toward the outside). Do you hear that instrument, madam? That's what they call a pot harp, very interesting!

HELLA (as before). Interesting or not. Why must you disturb us just now?

GLYSZINSKI (offended). If I had known this, I should not have come! (About to go out.)

PAUL (quite cold again). Stay right here, dear Glyszinski! You haven't disturbed us up to the present! I do not see that you are disturbing us now!

INSPECTOR (comes in through the open door). Sir, the people are outside with the pot harp and want to sing their song.

HELLA (annoyed). Oh, tell them to go and be done with it!

PAUL (quickly). No, please, Hella, that won't do. That is an old custom here on New Year's eve. Let them sing their song. Besides, I like to hear it. I heard it many a time in my boyhood days.

INSPECTOR. Shall I leave the door open, sir?

PAUL. Please! (He sits down at the fireplace.)

HELLA (steps up to him, with a voice that betrays excitement). Paul, do not listen to that nonsense out there! Don't let them muddle your head!

PAUL. My head is clearer than ever, Hella! Don't go to any further trouble! I can see my way quite plainly now.

HELLA (retreats to the sofa, embittered). And now that old trumpery must interfere too!

[INSPECTOR stands at the door with GLYSZINSKI, motions to those outside. A brief silence, then singing to the accompaniment of the pot harp. The lines run as follows:]

We wish our dear lord At his board, a full dish, And at all four corners A brown roasted fish: A crown for our dame; When the year's course is run The joy of all joys, A lusty young son.

HELLA. Will that continue much longer, Paul?

[PAUL gets up, motions to the inspector and goes out with him. The door is closed behind them. The muffled tones of the pot harp and the singing can still be heard, but the text becomes unintelligible. GLYSZINSKI, who also has been listening till now, starts to go out.]

HELLA (from the sofa). One moment, Doctor!

GLYSZINSKI (absent-minded). Were you calling me?

HELLA. Why, yes, now that you are here, I might as well make use of the occasion.

GLYSZINSKI (approaches, somewhat reserved). What can I do for you, madam?

HELLA. Dear friend, do not be startled. We shall have to part.

GLYSZINSKI (staggering). Part? We?...

HELLA (calmly). Yes, Doctor, it must be!

GLYSZINSKI. Why, who compels us to? No one!

HELLA (frigidly). My decision compels us, dear friend! Is that sufficient for you?

GLYSZINSKI (whimpering). Your decision, Hella? You are cruel.

HELLA. Yes, I myself am sorry, of course. I shall probably miss you quite frequently!

GLYSZINSKI (as before). Hella!

HELLA. Especially in connection with my correspondence. You have certainly been a real help to me there. I shall have to carry that burden alone again, now. But what is to be done about it? No other course is possible. We must part.

GLYSZINSKI. But why? At least, give me a reason! Don't turn me out in this fashion.

HELLA. It is necessary on account of my husband, dear friend! I must make this sacrifice for him.

GLYSZINSKI (raging). The monster! (He paces through the hall wildly.)

HELLA (with clarity). You know, it cannot be denied that Paul can't bear you, that he is always annoyed when he sees you ...

GLYSZINSKI. Do you suppose the reverse is not true?

HELLA. Yes, you men are exasperating. No one can eradicate your jealousy! That makes an unconstrained intercourse impossible! But what is to be done? Paul is my husband, not you. And so I am compelled to request you to yield.

GLYSZINSKI (with his hands raised). Kill me, Hella, but don't turn me out.

HELLA (wards him off). A pleasant journey. You will be able to find comfort.

GLYSZINSKI. I shall be alone, Hella!

HELLA (straightening up). All of us are!

GLYSZINSKI. May I ever see you again, Hella?

HELLA. Possibly later! And now go! I do not care to have my husband find you here when he comes. Why here he is now. (She pushes him over toward the right, the door has been opened and the singing has ceased in the meantime.)

PAUL (has entered, sees Glyszinski, frigidly). Are you still here? If you wish to talk together, I'll go out.

HELLA (comes over to PAUL). Please stay, Paul!

GLYSZINSKI has just been telling me that he is going to take the night train back to Berlin and he is asking you for a sleigh. Isn't that it, Doctor? (GLYSZINSKI nods silently, passes by PAUL and goes out at the right.)

PAUL (frigidly). What's the use of this farce?

HELLA (places her hand on his shoulder). Not a farce, Paul! It is really true! When we get to Berlin tomorrow evening, you will no longer find Glyszinski at our rooms! Are you satisfied now? Have I finally succeeded in pleasing you, you grumbler!

PAUL (turns away, clenching his fists nervously). Oh, well!

HELLA. Look into my face, Paul, old comrade! Tell me if you are pleased with your comrade. (PAUL is silent.)

HELLA (frowning). Now isn't that a proof to you of my fidelity and sincerity?

PAUL. Do not torment me, Hella. My decision is final!

HELLA (worried). I don't know what you mean! Surely the matter is settled. We are going, aren't we? (She looks at him anxiously.)

PAUL (frees himself from her). That is not settled! I shall remain! [A moment of silence.]

HELLA (furiously). You are going to remain?

PAUL (curtly). I shall remain ... And no power on earth will swerve me from my purpose! Not even you, Hella!

HELLA (plants herself before him). Are you trying to play the part of the stronger sex? Eye to eye, Paul! No evasions now! Are you playing the farce of the stronger sex?

PAUL. I do what I must do!

HELLA. What you must?... Well so must I.

PAUL (bows his head). I know that, and I am not hindering you!

HELLA (reflects a moment, then). And do you realize that that practically means separation for us?

PAUL. I have already told you, Hella, I am prepared for anything.

HELLA (looks at him sharply; with quick decision). And what if I stay also, Paul, what then?

PAUL. (is startled). If you also ...? You are not serious about that!

HELLA. Assume that I am!... If I should remain also, for your sake? (She stands before him erectly.)

PAUL (furiously). Don't jest, Hella! It is not the proper moment!

HELLA. I am certainly not jesting! I am your wife! I shall keep you company. Aren't you pleased with that?

PAUL (straightens up). The dead man stands between us, as you have said. Very well, let that be final! You have wished it so! The bond between us is broken. We have come to the parting of our ways. (He goes to the left, opens the door and walks out slowly. Deep twilight has set in.)

HELLA (stands rigidly and whispers to herself). To the parting of our ways? (Waking up, with a wild defiance.) If I consent, I say!... If I consent!



ACT V

A room in the garden house. The door in the background leads out-doors. There are windows at both sides of the door and also in the right wall. They all look out upon the garden, but are draped with long, heavy curtains. On the left a door leads into the bedroom. On the same side farther back a tile stove. A divan, table and chair, very near the stove. Bookshelves along the walls. The general impression is that of simple comfort.

It is evening, a short time after the preceding act. A lamp is burning on the table and lights up the no more than fair-sized cozy room.

INSPECTOR ZINDEL appears in the open door at the background. Before him stands PAUL.

PAUL. As I was saying, have the bay saddled in case I should still want to take a ride.

INSPECTOR ZINDEL. Very well, sir! Immediately?

PAUL. In about thirty minutes.

INSPECTOR ZINDEL. Shall the coachman bring out the bay or will you come to the stable?

PAUL. Have it brought out! Good-by. (He comes back into the room.)

INSPECTOR ZINDEL. Good night, sir! (He withdraws and closes the door behind him.)

[PAUL walks up and down excitedly several times. He seems to be in a violent struggle with himself, sometimes listens for something outside, shakes his head, groans deeply, finally throws himself on the divan and crosses his arms under his head. Short pause.]

HELLA (opens the door in the background, enters and looks around). Are you here, Paul? (She has thrown a shawl around her.)

PAUL (jumps up, disappointed). Hella, you? (Sits down.)

HELLA (approaches). Yes, it is I, Hella! Who else? Were you expecting some one else?

PAUL (painfully). Why do you still insist upon coming? Don't make it unnecessarily hard for both of us.

HELLA (calmly). I am waiting for an explanation from you. Since you will not give it to me of your own accord, I am compelled to get it. It seems to me I have a right to claim it.

PAUL. You certainly have.

HELLA (with folded arms). Please, then!

PAUL. Hella, what is the purpose of this? You do know everything now!

HELLA. I know nothing. I should like to find out from you.

PAUL (gets up). Very well, then I will tell you.

HELLA. I assume that the Polish woman is mixed up in this affair.

PAUL. So you do know! Why in the world are you going to the trouble of asking me?

HELLA. So it's really true? I am to stand aside for a little goose from the country!

PAUL (starts up). A little goose from the country?... Hella, control your tongue!

HELLA (walks up and down). If it were not so ridiculous, it would be exasperating!

PAUL. The woman under discussion is not a little goose from the country, my dear, just as little as you are one from the city.

HELLA. Thank you for your flattering comparison.

PAUL. That woman has had her struggles and trials as much as you have, and in spite of it has remained a woman, which you have not!

HELLA (scornfully). Well, well. Are you now asserting your real nature? Are you throwing off the mask? Go on! Go on!

PAUL (controls himself with an effort). That is all! I am only standing up for one who is dear to me!

HELLA. Ha, ha! Dear! Today and tomorrow!

PAUL. You are mistaken, Hella! I believe in Antoinette, and I shall not swerve from that.

HELLA (with a sudden inspiration). Antoinette ... Antoinette ... Why that name ...

PAUL. Let me assist you, Hella. Antoinette is the friend of my youth ...

HELLA (nonplussed). The friend of your youth?

PAUL, Indeed, Hella, I have known her longer than I have known you.

HELLA. The one whom you were to marry once upon a time? Is it she?

PAUL (sadly). Whom I was to marry, whom I refused on your account, Hella.

HELLA. You met her again here?

PAUL. As Mrs. von Laskowski, yes, Hella!

HELLA (starts for him, with a savage expression). And you kept that from me?

PAUL. Why you did not give me a chance to speak, when I tried to tell you.

HELLA. So that was the confidence you had! Well, of course, then, of course!

PAUL. Oh, my confidence, Hella! Don't mention that. That had died long before!

HELLA. To be deceived so shamefully.

PAUL. Blame yourself! You have killed it systematically!

HELLA. I? What else, pray tell!

PAUL. Yes, by forever considering only yourself and never me! That could not help but stifle all my feelings in time. I fought against it as long as I could, Hella, but it had to come to an end some time.

HELLA. And I went about without misgivings, while behind my back a conspiracy was forming ...

PAUL (shrugging his shoulders). Who conspired?

HELLA. All of you! This whole owl's nest of a house was in league against me! You had conspired against me, you and your ilk, simply because I was superior to you, that's the reason why you wanted to shoulder me off! Do you suppose I don't realize that? Very well, let baseness prevail! I am willing to retreat!

PAUL. It always has been your trick, Hella, to play the part of offended innocence! It is well that you are reminding me of that in this hour! You are making the step easier for me than I had hoped.

HELLA. This is the thanks!

PAUL. Thanks!... How in the world could you expect thanks?

HELLA (with infuriated hatred). Because I made a human being of you!

PAUL (starting up). Hella, you are making use of words!

HELLA (beside herself). Yes, made a human being of you. I will repeat it ten times over!

PAUL. Won't you kindly call in the whole estate with your shrieking.

HELLA. The whole world, for all I care! What were you when you came into my hands? A crude student, utterly helpless, whom I directed into the proper channels, I, single handed! Without me you would have gone to the dogs or you might have become one of those novelists whom no one reads! I was the first one to put sound ideas in your head, roused your talent and pointed out to you all that is really demanded. Through me you attained a name and reputation, and now that you are fortunate enough to be that far along, you go and throw yourself away upon a Polish goose, you ... you?

PAUL (as if under a lash). There are limits to all things, Hella, even to consideration for your sex! Do not assume that you still have me in your power. It has lasted fifteen years. It is over today. Do you suppose I ought to thank you for sapping everything from me, my will-power, my strength, my real talents, all the faith in love and beauty that was once in me, which you have systematically driven out with your infernal leveling process? Where shall I ever find a trace of all that again? I might seek for a hundred years and not strike that path again! I might have become an artist, at life or art itself, who cares! And you have made me a beggar, a machine, that reels off its uniform sing-song day after day! You have cheated me out of my life, you imp!... Give it back to me! (He stands before her, breathing heavily, struggling for air.)

HELLA (has become quite calm). Why did you allow yourself to be cheated. It's your own fault!

PAUL (suddenly calm, but sad and resigned). That is a profound word, Hella! Why have you ... allowed ... yourself to be cheated!

HELLA. You had your will-power just as I had mine. Why did you not make use of it?

PAUL. You, with your ideas, would say that, Hella?

HELLA. Yes, one or the other is stronger, of course! Why should we women not be stronger?

PAUL (turns away). That is sufficient, Hella. We are through with each other. There is nothing more to say.

HELLA. As you may decide. So it is really all over between us?

PAUL (stands in deep thought and murmurs to himself). Why did you allow yourself to be cheated? Terrible! Terrible! Why must this conviction come too late?

HELLA (in a lurking manner). I suppose you are going to the other woman now?

PAUL (breathes a deep sigh of relief). We are going together!

HELLA (with a sudden inspiration). If I release you, you mean!

PAUL (quite calmly). I suppose you will be compelled to!

HELLA (triumphantly). Who can compel me?

PAUL (starts up). Hella, then ... Then ...

HELLA. Well? Then?

PAUL (controls himself, with a strange expression). Then we shall see who is the stronger. (The door in the background has been opened.)

ANTOINETTE (has entered quickly, starts at seeing HELLA, stops in the background and sags, in a subdued voice). Paul!

PAUL (turns around frightened, exclaims passionately). Antoinette! (He rushes up to her, about to embrace her. She turns him aside gently and looks at HELLA. The two press each other's hands firmly and look into each other's eyes.)

ANTOINETTE (softly). I am here, Paul.

PAUL. Thank you, thank you, dear!

HELLA (has recovered from her astonishment and starts for Antoinette, savagely). Who are you, and what do you want here?

PAUL (steps between them, very seriously). Hella ... If you please ...

ANTOINETTE (restrains PAUL, with a quiet, distinguished bearing). I am not afraid, Paul. Just continue, madam.

HELLA (furiously). Who has given you the right to intrude here?

[PAUL has retreated a little in response to ANTOINETTE'S entreating glance.]

ANTOINETTE. Ask yourself, madam. Who was here earlier, you or I?

HELLA (turns away abruptly). I shall not quarrel with you, I shall simply show you the door!

PAUL. Well, well. We are standing on my soil now, Hella! Remember that!

HELLA (infuriated). Oh, I suppose you are insisting upon your rights!

PAUL, Why I simply must. You are forcing me to do so!

HELLA. Very well. I am doing that very thing!

PAUL (clenches his fists). Really now! You will not change your mind?

HELLA. I will not change my mind. I shall not release you. Now do as you please!

PAUL. You will not release me?

HELLA. No!

PAUL, (beside himself). You!... You!...

ANTOINETTE. Be quiet, dear! No mortal can interfere with us.

HELLA. How affectionate! You probably suppose that you have him already? That I shall simply go and your happiness is complete! Don't deceive yourself! You shall not enjoy happiness when I am compelled to battle.

ANTOINETTE. Did I not battle?

HELLA. Your little battle. Simply because you did not happen to get the man that you wanted! We have had battles of quite other dimensions!

ANTOINETTE. Do not believe for a moment that you have a right to look down upon me! I shall pick up your gauntlet in the things that really count.

HELLA. You? My gauntlet? Ha, ha!

ANTOINETTE. You too are only a woman, just as I am, and although you may rate yourself ever so much higher, you will remain a woman nevertheless!

HELLA. Woman or not! I shall show you with whom you have to deal! I shall not retreat and that settles it! Under the law, you shall never get each other. Now show your courage.

ANTOINETTE. I shall show you my courage!

HELLA. Dare to do so without the law! Bear the consequences! Suffer yourself to be cast out by all the world! Have them point their fingers at you! That is the absconded wife who is living with a run-away husband! Take that ban upon you! Do you see now? I should. I should scorn the whole world! Can you do the same?

[ANTOINETTE bows her head and is silent.]

HELLA (triumphantly). You can't do that! I knew it very well.

ANTOINETTE (composed). What I can and what I cannot do is in the hand of God. That is all that I have to say to you.

HELLA. That is all I need to know! I wish you a happy life!

PAUL (has been restraining himself, steps up to HELLA). Hella, one last word!

HELLA. It has been spoken!

PAUL. Do you remember what we agreed to do once upon a time?

HELLA. I don't remember anything now!

PAUL. Hella, remember! On our wedding day we agreed, if either one of us, from an honest conviction, should demand his freedom, he should have it, our compact should be ended. That occasion is here. Remember!

HELLA. I don't remember a thing now. You certainly do not.

ANTOINETTE. Don't say another word, dear!

HELLA. It would certainly do no good! Good-by! As for the rest, we shall see!

PAUL. We shall.

[HELLA goes out with head erect and closes the door behind her. Pause. PAUL and Antoinette stand face to face for a moment and look into each other's eyes.]

PAUL (morosely). Now the bridges are burned behind us!

ANTOINETTE. They are, dear. Do you realize it?

PAUL. What now? What now?

ANTOINETTE (sinks upon his breast). Paul! My Paul!

PAUL (embraces her, presses her to him fervently. They embrace in silence, then he draws her down beside him on the divan, and looks at her affectionately). It was a long time before you came, Toinette.

ANTOINETTE. But now I am here, and shall leave you no more.

PAUL. You will not leave me, beloved?

ANTOINETTE. I shall never leave you.

PAUL. And I shall not leave you.

ANTOINETTE. And you will not leave me. (They embrace each other.)

PAUL (straightens up). Why did you stay so long, Toinette?

ANTOINETTE. Much was to be set in order, dear.

PAUL. I was almost beginning to doubt you.

ANTOINETTE. You wicked man. Then I should have been forced to go alone.

PAUL. Alone? Where would you have gone, you poor, helpless, little soul

ANTOINETTE. Do not think that! I have the thing that will help me. That is why I am so late!

PAUL (shrinking). Antoinette!

ANTOINETTE (smiling). Don't be frightened, dear! Two drops and all is over.

PAUL (has risen). You would?

ANTOINETTE (gently). Yes, I will. Are you going with me?

PAUL. Toinette! Toinette! (Walks through the room excitedly.)

ANTOINETTE. Think of her words, she will not release you!

PAUL. Is Hella right? You haven't the courage?

ANTOINETTE (passionately). Courage I have, Paul. To the very end!

PAUL. Very well, then we shall undertake it in spite of them all.

ANTOINETTE (excited). The absconded wife! The runaway husband! Did you forget those words? Those terrible words! They keep on ringing in my ears. Are we to live in the scorn of people. I cannot, Paul.

PAUL. You do not want to.

ANTOINETTE. No, I do not want to! I do not care to descend into the mire! I have hated it all of my life. They shall not be able to reproach us for anything.

PAUL (in passionate excitement). Is it to be? Is it to be? (ANTOINETTE nods silently).

PAUL (suddenly overcome with emotion, falls upon his knees before ANTOINETTE and presses his head to her bosom). Kiss me, kiss me, beloved!

ANTOINETTE (puts her arms around him). Here on your brow, my lover! Are you content? (She kisses his brow.)

PAUL. Content in life or death. (He gets up, sits down beside ANTOINETTE and looks at her). Are you weeping, sweetheart?

ANTOINETTE (lowers her head, gently). Why, you are, too, Paul!

PAUL (passes his hand over his eyes). All over! Tell me what you think now, dear!

ANTOINETTE (also controlling her tears). It is this, dear, our time is short. I rode away from my husband! He was riding ahead of me in the sleigh. I had told him that I would follow and I mounted my horse and came to you.

PAUL (puts his arms around her). Courageous soul! Rode through the forest?

ANTOINETTE. Right on through the forest. The sun was already going down, when I set out.

PAUL. The sun of New Year's Eve ... Did you see it too?

ANTOINETTE. When it was down, the gloaming afforded me light, and later the snow.

PAUL (sadly with a touch of roguishness). Dearest, when the sun is down, there is nothing left to give light.

ANTOINETTE. Indeed, my beloved, indeed! Then come the stars. They are finer.

PAUL. Do you believe in the stars?

ANTOINETTE. You heretic, I believe!...

PAUL. Still believe in heaven and hell?

ANTOINETTE. No longer for us. For us, the stars.

PAUL. Do you think so? For us?

ANTOINETTE. For us and lovers such as we are!

PAUL. How do you know that?

ANTOINETTE. Since I have you!

PAUL. Then I believe it too!

ANTOINETTE. My friend! My beloved! My life! (She presses him to her.)

PAUL. My beloved! My wife! [Blissful silence.]

ANTOINETTE (straightens up). Don't you hear steps? (She listens.)

PAUL (also listens). Where, pray tell.

ANTOINETTE (has risen). Out in the garden. It seemed so to me.

PAUL. I hear nothing. All is still.

ANTOINETTE (leans upon him). I am afraid, Paul.

PAUL. Afraid? Of what?

ANTOINETTE. That he will come and get me. Our time is short.

PAUL. Then I will protect you.

ANTOINETTE. Paul, I don't want to see him again! I don't want to see another soul!

PAUL (looks at her with glowing eyes). How beautiful you are now, Toinette!

ANTOINETTE. Am I beautiful? Am I beautiful. For you, my Paul, for you!

PAUL. For me. (He puts his arms around her.)

ANTOINETTE (proudly). I am still beautiful and young and yet I shall cast it away. I am not afraid.

PAUL (his arms about her). We are not afraid!

ANTOINETTE. Out into night and death together with you!

PAUL. It is not worth living! We have realized that!

ANTOINETTE (looks up at him, smiling). Haven't we, Paul, we two lost creatures? (In each other's embrace, they are silent for a moment.)

ANTOINETTE (roguishly). Do you remember, dear, what you used to do when you were a little boy?

PAUL. No, sweetheart, tell me!

ANTOINETTE. Try to recall, dear. What did you do when your mother gave us bread and cake.

PAUL. I took the bread first, is that what you mean, and then finished up with the cake.

ANTOINETTE (shakes her finger at him). Kept the cake for the end, you crafty fellow!

PAUL (is forced to laugh). Kept the best part for the end! Yes that's what I did.

ANTOINETTE (on his breast). Just wait, you rogue. Now I'll make you answer. Tell me, what am I now, bread or cake!

PAUL. My last, my best, my all, that's what you are to me!

ANTOINETTE. There can be no joy beyond this. Shall we become old and gray and withered? Come, my dear, come!

PAUL (looks at her for a long time). Do you know of what you remind me now?

ANTOINETTE. Of what, Paul?

PAUL. That is just the way you stood in our park when you were a girl, out there under the alders, and beckoned to me when you wanted me to come and play with you.

ANTOINETTE (beckoning roguishly). Come on, Paul. Come on. Isn't that it?

PAUL. Just so! Just so!

ANTOINETTE. Catch me, Paulie!... Catch me! (She runs to the left, opens the door and remains standing.)

PAUL (runs after her and seizes her). Now I have you, you rogue?

ANTOINETTE (in his arms). Have me and hold me fast!

PAUL. New Year's Eve! New Year's Eve!... Is it here?

ANTOINETTE. It's no longer necessary for us to cast lead to find out how long we are to live. We know!

PAUL. Soon we shall know nothing!

ANTOINETTE. Soon we shall know all!

PAUL. On your stars, do you mean?

ANTOINETTE (nods). On our star, my lover, you and I shall meet again.

PAUL. There we shall meet again!

ANTOINETTE (starts, and listens). Do you hear?

[INSPECTOR ZINDEL opens the door in the background and stands in the door. PAUL and ANTOINETTE let go of each other, keeping their places.]

INSPECTOR ZINDEL. The bay is bridled, sir, and stands out here.

ANTOINETTE (has an inspiration). The bay bridled? Is my gray there, too?

INSPECTOR ZINDEL. It is, madam!

ANTOINETTE. Very well. Stay with the horses. We shall be there immediately!

[INSPECTOR ZINDEL withdraws.]

PAUL (astonished). What is it, dear? What do you intend to do?

ANTOINETTE (with frantic passion). To our horses, dearest! To our horses!

PAUL (incredulously). Out into the world, after all?

ANTOINETTE (with a wild fervor). Out with you into the night ... the night of Saint Sylvester!

PAUL (sadly). Stay here, Toinette! Why begin the farce anew! Let it end upon this soil, that nurtured our childhood!

ANTOINETTE (imploring). Come, dearest, to our horses! Let us ride to my home.

PAUL. To your home?

ANTOINETTE. To Rukkoschin, the house of my fathers.

PAUL. Do you wish to go there?

ANTOINETTE. I wish to see it once more!

PAUL. And then we shall be ready?

ANTOINETTE. The house lies secluded and empty and dead.

PAUL. Only the spirits of your fathers are stirring.

ANTOINETTE. But I know of one room where I played as a child, that has suffered no change.

PAUL (overcome). To our horses! To our horses!

ANTOINETTE. The night is clear. Many thousands of stars will light the way. We shall ride through the forest. Right across the lake. The ice is firm.

[She draws him out.]

PAUL (with a gesture toward the outside). Farewell, Hella! Your reign is over!... We are returning to Mother Earth! (They depart through the door in the background.)



HUGO VON HOFMANNSTHAL

* * * * * *

THE MARRIAGE OF SOBEIDE

A DRAMATIC POEM

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

A WEALTHY MERCHANT

SOBEIDE, his young wife

BACHTJAR, the Jeweler, SOBEIDE'S father

SOBEIDE'S MOTHER

SHALNASSAR, the Carpet-dealer

GANEM, his son

GUeLISTANE, a ship-captain's widow

An Armenian Slave

An old Camel-driver

A Gardener

His wife

BAHRAM, Servant of the MERCHANT

A Debtor of SHALNASSAR

An old city in the Kingdom of Persia

The time is the evening and the night after the wedding-feast of the wealthy merchant.



THE MARRIAGE OF SOBEIDE (1899)

TRANSLATED BY BAYARD QUINCY MORGAN, PH.D.

Assistant Professor of German, University of Wisconsin



Scene I

Sleeping chamber in the house of the wealthy MERCHANT. To the rear an alcove with dark curtains. To the left a door, to the right a small door leading into the garden, and a window. Candles.

Enter the MERCHANT and his old Servant, BAHRAM.

MERCHANT. Speak, Bahram, gav'st thou heed unto my bride?

SERVANT. Heed, in what sense!

MERCHANT. She is not cheerful, Bahram.

SERVANT. She is a serious girl. And 'tis a moment That sobers e'en the flightiest, remember.

MERCHANT. Not she alone: the more I bade them kindle Lights upon lights, the heavier hung a cloud About this wedding-feast. They smiled like masks, And I could catch the dark or pitying glances They flung to one another; and her father Would oft subside into a dark reflection, From which he roused himself with laughter forced, Unnatural.

SERVANT. My Lord, our common clay Endureth none too well the quiet splendor Of hours like these. We are but little used To aught but dragging through our daily round Of littleness. And on such high occasions We feel the quiet opening of a portal From which an unfamiliar, icy breath Our spirit chills, and warns us of the grave. As in a glass we then behold our own Forgotten likeness come into our vision, And easier 'twere to weep than to be merry.

MERCHANT. She tasted not a morsel that thou placed Before her.

SERVANT. Lord, her modest maidenhood Was like a noose about her throat; but yet She ate some of the fruit.

MERCHANT. Yes, one small seed, I noticed that, 'twas a pomegranate seed.

SERVANT. Then too she suddenly bethought herself That wine, a blood-red flame in sparkling crystal, Before her stood, and raised the splendid goblet And drank as with a sudden firm resolve The half of it, so that the color flooded Her cheeks, and deep she sighed as with relief.

MERCHANT. Methinks that was no happy resolution. So acts the man who would deceive himself, And veils his glance, because the road affrights him.

SERVAMT. Vain torments these: this is but women's way.

MERCHANT.(looks about the room, smiles). A mirror, too, I see thou hast provided.

SERVAMT. Thine own command, the mirror is thy mother's, Brought hither from her chamber with the rest. And thou thyself didst bid me, just this one ...

MERCHANT. What, did I so? It was a moment, then, When I was shrewder than I am just now. Yes, yes, a youthful bride must have a mirror.

SERVANT. Now I will go to fetch your mother's goblet And bring the cooling evening drink.

MERCHANT. Ah yes. Go, my good Bahram, fetch the evening drink. [Exit BAHRAM.] Thou mirror of my mother, dwells no glimmer In thee of her sweet pallid smile, to rise As from the dewy mirror of a well-spring? Her smile, the faintest, loveliest I have known, Was like the flutter of a tiny birdling, That sleeps its last upon the hollowed hand. [Stands before the mirror.] No, naught but glass. Too long it empty stood. Only a face that does not smile—my own. My Self, beheld with my own eyes, so vacant As if one glass but mirrored forth another, Unconscious.—Oh for higher vision yet, For but one moment infinitely brief, To see how stands upon her spirit's mirror My image! Is't an old man she beholds? Am I as young as oft I deem myself, When in the silent night I lie and listen To hear my blood surge through its winding course? Is it not being young, to have so little Of rigidness or hardness in my nature? I feel as if my spirit, nursed and reared On nourishment so dreamlike, bloodless, thin, Were youthful still. How else should visit me This faltering feeling, just as in my boyhood, This strange uneasiness of happiness, As if 'twould slip each moment from my hands And fade like shadows? Can the old feel this? No, old men take the world for something hard And dreamless; what their fingers grasp and hold, They hold. While I am even now a-quiver With all this moment brings; no youthful monarch Were more intoxicated, when the breezes Should waft to him that cryptic word "possession." [He nears the window.] Ah, lovely stars, are ye out there as ever? From out of this unstable mortal body To look upon your courses in your whirling Eternal orbits—that has been the food That bore with ease my years, until I thought I scarcely felt my feet upon the earth. And have I really withered, while my eyes Clung to yon golden suns, that do not wither? And have I learned of all the quiet plants, And marked their parts and understood their lives, And how they differ when upon the mountains, Or when by running streams we find them growing,— Almost a new creation, yet at bottom A single species; and with confidence Could say, this one does well, its food is pure, And lightly bears the burden of its leaves, But this through worthless soil and sultry vapors Has thickened stems, and bloated, swollen leaves ... And more ... and of myself I can know nothing, And heavy scales are crusted on my eyes, Impeding judgment ... [He hastily steps before the mirror again.] Soulless tool! Not like some books and men caught unawares: Thou never canst reveal the hidden truth As in a lightning flash.

SERVANT (returning). My master.

MERCHANT. Well?

SERVANT. The guests depart. The father of thy bride And others have been asking after thee.

MERCHANT. And what of her?

SERVANT. She takes leave of her parents.

[MERCHANT stands a moment with staring eyes, then goes out at the door to the left with long strides. SERVANT follows him. The stage remains empty for a short time. Then the MERCHANT reenters, hearing a candelabrum which he places on the table beside the evening drink. SOBEIDE enters behind him, led by her father and mother. All stop in the centre of the room, somewhat to the left, the MERCHANT slightly removed from the rest. SOBEIDE gently releases herself. Her veil hangs down behind her. She wears a string of pearls in her hair, a larger one about her neck.]

FATHER. From much in life I have been forced to part. This is the hardest. My beloved daughter, This is the day which I began to dread When still I saw thee smiling in thy cradle, And which has been my nightmare o'er and o'er. (To the MERCHANT.) Forgive me. She is more to me than child. I give thee that for which I have no name, For every name comprises but a part— But she was everything to me!

SOBEIDE. Dear father, My mother will be with thee.

MOTHER (gently). Cross him not: He is quite right to overlook his wife. I have become a part of his own being, What strikes me, strikes him too; but what I do Affects him only as when right and left Of his own body meet. Meanwhile, however, The soul remains through all its days a nursling, And reaches out for breasts more full of life, Farewell. Be no worse helpmeet than I was, And mayst thou be as happy too. This word Embraces all.

SOBEIDE. Embrace—that is the word; Till now my fate was in your own embraced, But now the life of this man standing here Swings wide its gates, and in this single moment I breathe for once the blessed air of freedom: No longer yours, and still not his as yet. I beg you, go; for this unwonted thing, As new to me as wine, has greater power, And makes me view my life and his and yours With other eyes than were perhaps befitting. (With a forced smile.) I beg you, look not in such wonderment: Such notions oft go flitting through my head, Nor dream nor yet reality. Ye know, As child I was much worse. And then the dance Which I invented, is't not such a thing: Wherein from torchlight and the black of night I made myself a shifting, drifting palace, From which I then emerged, as do the queens Of fire and ocean in the fairy-tales. [The MOTHER has meanwhile thrown the FATHER a glance and has noiselessly gone to the door. Noiselessly the FATHER has followed her. Now they stand with clasped hands in the doorway, to vanish the next moment.] Ye go so softly? What? And are ye gone? [She turns and stands silent, her eyes cast down.]

MERCHANT (caresses her with a long look, then goes to the rear, but stops again irresolute). Wilt thou not lay aside thy veil? [SOBEIDE starts, looks about her absent-mindedly.]

MERCHANT (points to the glass). 'Tis yonder. [SOBEIDE takes no step, loosens mechanically the veil from her hair.]



MERCHANT. Here—in thy house—and just at first perhaps Thou mayst lack much. This house, since mother's death, Has grown disused to serve a woman's needs. And our utensils here do not display The splendor and magnificence in which I fain had seen thee framed, but yet for me Scant beauty dwells in what all men may have: So from the stuffy air of chests and caskets That, like the sandal-wood in sanctuary, Half took my breath, I had all these removed And placed there in thy chamber for thy service, Where something of my mother's presence still— Forgive me—seems to cling. I thought in this To show and teach thee something ... On some things There are mute symbols deeply stamped, with which The air grows laden in our quiet hours, And fuses something with our consciousness That could not well be said, nor was to be. [Pause.] It hurts me when I see thee thus, benumbed By all these overladen moments, that Scarce walk upright beneath their heavy burden. But let me say, all good things enter in Our souls in quiet unpretentious ways, And not with show and noise. One keeps expecting To see Life suddenly appear somewhere On the horizon, like a new domain, A country yet untrodden. Yet the distance Remains unpeopled; slowly then our eyes Perceive its traces ling'ring here and yonder, And that it compasses, embraces us, And bears us, is in us, and nowhere fails us. The words I say can give thee little pleasure, Too much renunciation rings in them. But not to me, by Heaven! My sweet child, Not like a beggar do I feel before thee, (With a long look at her.) However fair thy youth's consummate glory Envelop thee from top to toe ... thou knowest Not much about my life, thou hast but seen A fragment of its shell, as dimly gleaming In shadows through the op'nings of a hedge. I wish thine eye might pierce the heart of it: As fully as the earth beneath my feet Have I put from me all things low and common. Callst thou that easy, since I now am old? 'Tis true, I've lost some friends by death ere this— And thou at most thy grandam—many friends, And those that live, where are they scattered now? To them was linked the long forgotten quiver Of nights of youth, those evening hours in which Vague fear with monstrous, sultry happiness Was mingled, and the perfume of young locks With darkling breezes wafted from the stars.

* * * * * *

The glamor of the motley towns and cities, The distant purple haze—that now is gone, Nor could be found, though I should go to seek it; But here within me, when I call, there rises A something, rules my spirit, and I feel As if it might in thee as well— [He changes his tone.] Knowst thou the day, on which thou needst must dance Before thy father's guests? A smile unfading Dwelt on thy lips, than any string of pearls More fair, and sadder than my mother's smile, Which thou hast ne'er beheld. This is to blame: That smile and dance were interlaced, like wondrous Fingers of dreamlike possibilities. Wouldst thou they ne'er had been, since they're to blame, My wife, that thou art standing here with me?

SOBEIDE (in such a tone that her voice is heard to strike her teeth). Commandest thou that I should dance? If not, Commandest thou some other thing?

MERCHANT. My wife, How wild thou speakest with me, and how strangely!

SOBEIDE. Wild? Hard, perhaps: my fate is none too soft. Thou speakest as a good man speaks, then be So good as not to speak with me today. I am thy chattel, take me as thy chattel, And let me, like a chattel, keep my thoughts Unspoken, only uttered to myself! [She weeps silently with compressed lips, her face turned toward the darkness.]

MERCHANT. So many tears and in such silence. This Is not the shudder that relieves the anguish Of youth. Here there is deeper pain to quiet Than inborn rigidness of timid spirits.

SOBEIDE. Lord, shouldst thou waken in the night and find Me weeping thus whenas I seem to sleep, Then wake me, lest I do what thy good right Forbids me. For in dreams upon thy bed I shall be seeing then another man And longing for him; this were not becoming, And makes me shudder at myself to think it. Oh promise me that thou wilt then awake me! [Pause. The MERCHANT is silent; deep feeling darkens his face.] No question who it is? Does that not matter? No? But thy face is gloomy and thou breathest With effort? Then I will myself confess it: Thou hast beheld him at our house ere now, His name is Ganem—son of old Shalnassar, The carpet-dealer—and 'tis three years now Since first I knew him. But since yesteryear I have not seen him more. This I have said, this last thing I reveal, Because I will permit no sediment Of secrecy and lies to lurk within me. I care not thou shouldst know: I am no vessel Sold off as pure, but lined with verdigris To eat its bottom out—and then because I wanted to be spared his frequent visits In this abode—for that were hard to bear.

MERCHANT (threateningly, but soon choked by wrath and pain). Thou! Thou hast ... thou hast ... [He claps his hands to his face.]

SOBEIDE. Thou weepest too, then, on thy wedding-day? And have I spoiled some dream for thee? Look hither: Thou sayst, I am so young, and this, and this— [Points to hair and cheeks.] Are young indeed, but weary is my spirit, So weary, that there is no word to tell How weary and how aged before my time. We are one age, perhaps thou art the younger. In conversation once thou saidst to me, That almost all the years since I was born Had passed for thee in sitting in thy gardens And in the quiet tower thou hast builded, To watch the stars from it. 'Twas on that day It first seemed possible to me, that thy And, more than that, my father's fond desire Might be ... fulfilled. For I supposed the air In this thy house must have some lightness in it, So light, so burdenless!—And in our house It was so overladen with remembrance, The airy corpse of sleepless nights went floating All through it, and on all the walls there hung The burden of those fondly cherished hopes, Once vivid, then rejected, long since faded. The glances of my parents rested ever Upon me, and their whole existence.—Well, Too well I knew each quiver of an eyelash, And over all there was the constant pressure Of thy commanding will, that on my soul Lay like a coverlet of heavy sleep. 'Twas common, that I yielded at the last: I seek no other word. And yet the common Is strong, and all our life is full of it. How could I thrust it down and trample on it, While I was floundering in it up to the neck?

MERCHANT. So my desire lay like a cruel nightmare Upon thy breast! Then thou must surely hate me ...

SOBEIDE. I hate thee not, I have not learned to hate, And only just began to learn to love. The lessons stopped, but I am fairly able To do such things as, with that smile thou knowest, To dance, with heart as heavy as the stones, To face each heavy day, each coming evil With smiles: the utmost power of my youth That smile consumed, but to the bitter end I wore it, and so here I stand with thee.

MERCHANT. In this I see but shadowy connection.

SOBEIDE. How I connect my being forced to smile And finally becoming wife to thee? Wilt thou know this? And must I tell thee all? Then knowst thou, since thou art rich, so little Of life, and hast no eyes for aught but stars, And flowers in thy heated greenhouse? Listen: This is the cause: a poor man is my father, Not always poor, much worse: once rich, now poor, And many people's debtor, most of all Thy debtor. And his starving spirit lived Upon my smile, as other people's hearts On other lies. These last years, since thou camest, I knew my task; till then had been my schooling.

MERCHANT. And so became my wife! As quick she would have grasped her pointed shears And opened up a vein and with her blood Have let her life run out into a bath, If that had been the price with which to purchase Her father's freedom from his creditor! ... Thus is a wish fulfilled!

SOBEIDE. Be not distressed. This is the way of life. I am myself as in a waking dream. As one who, taken sick, no more aright Compares his thoughts, nor any more remembers How on the day before he viewed a matter, Nor what he then had feared or had expected: He cannot look with eyes of yesterday ... So also when we reach the worser stages Of that great illness: Life. I scarcely know Myself how great my fear of many things, How much I longed for others, and I feel, When some things cross my mind, as if it were Another woman's fate, and not my own, Just some one that I know about, not I. I tell thee, I am bitter, but not evil: And if at first I was too wild for thee, There will be no deception in me later, When I shall sit at ease and watch thy gardeners. My head is tired out. I grow so dizzy, When I must keep two things within myself That fight against each other. Much too long Have I been forced to do this. Give me peace! Thou giv'st me this, and for that I am grateful. Call not this little: terrible in weakness Is everything that grows on shifting sands Of doubt. But here is perfect certainty.

MERCHANT. And how of him?

SOBEIDE. That too must not distress thee. 'Twere hard to judge, had I concealed it from thee; I have revealed it now, so let it rest.

MERCHANT. Thou art not free of him!

SOBEIDE. So thinkest thou? When is one "free?" Things have no hold on us, Except we have in us the will to hold them. All that is past. [Gesture.]

MERCHANT (after a pause). His love was like to thine? [SOBEIDE nods.] But then, why then, how has it come to pass That he was not the one—

SOBEIDE Why, we were poor! No, more than poor, thou knowst. His father, too. Poor too. Besides, a gloomy man, as hard As mine was all too soft, and on him weighing As mine on me. The whole much easier To live through than to put in words. For years It lasted. We were children when it started, Ere long as tired as foals, too early harnessed For drawing heavy wagons in the harvest.

MERCHANT. But let me tell thee, this cannot be true About his father. I know old Shalnassar, The carpet-dealer. Well, he is a graybeard, And he who will may speak good of his name, But I will not. A wicked, bad old man!

SOBEIDE. May be, all one. To him it is his father. I ne'er have seen him. Ganem sees him so. He calls him sick, is saddened when he speaks Of him. And therefore I have never seen him, That is, not since my childhood, when I saw Him now and then upon the window leaning.

MERCHANT. But he's not poor, no, anything but poor!

SOBEIDE (sure of her facts, sadly smiling). Thinkst thou I should be here?

MERCHANT. And he?

SOBEIDE. What, he?

MERCHANT. He clearly made thee feel He thought impossible, what he and thou Had wished for years and long held possible?

SOBEIDE. Why, for it was impossible? ... and then "Had wished for years"—thou seest, all these matters Are different, and the words we use Are different. At one time this has ripened, But to decay again. For there are moments With cheeks that burn like the eternal suns— When somewhere hovers mute an unconfessed Confession, somewhere vanishes in air The echo of a call that never reached Its utterance; here in me something whispers, "I yielded to him;" mark: in thought! "I yielded"— The following moment swallows everything, As night the lightning flash ... How all began And ended? Well, in this wise: first I sealed My lips, soon then set seal upon my eye-lids, And he—

MERCHANT. Well, how was he?

SOBEIDE. Why, very noble. As one who seeks to sully his own image In other eyes, to spare that other pain— Quite different, no longer kind as once —It was the greatest kindness, so to act— His spirit rent and full of mockery, that Perhaps was bitterer to himself than me, Just like an actor oftentimes, so strangely With set intent. At other times again Discoursing of the future, of the time When I should give my hand—

MERCHANT (vehemently). To me?

SOBEIDE (coldly). When I should give my hand to any other;— Describing what he knew that I should never Endure, if life should ever take that form. As little as himself would e'er have borne it A single hour, for he but made a show, Acquaint with me, and knowing it would cost The less of pain to wrench my heart from him, So soon as I had come to doubt his faith.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

'Twas too well acted, but what wealth of goodness Was there.

MERCHANT. The greatest goodness, if 'twas really Naught but a pose assumed.

SOBEIDE (passionately). I beg thee, husband, This one thing: ruin not our life together. As yet 'tis young and blind as tiny fledglings, A single speech like this might swiftly slay it! I shall not be an evil wife to thee: I mean that slowly I shall find, perhaps, In other things a little of that bliss For which I held out eager fingers, thinking There was a land quite full of it, both air And earth, and one might enter into it. I know by now that I was not to enter ... I shall be almost happy in that day, All longing, painless, shared 'twixt past and present, Like shining sunlight on the fresh green trees, And like an unburdened sky behind the garden The future: empty, yet quite full of light ... But we must give it time to grow: As yet confusion everywhere prevails. Thou must assist me, it must never happen That with ill-chosen words thou link this present Too strongly to the life which now is over. They must be parted by a wall of glass, As airtight and as rigid as in dreams. (At the window.) That evening must not come, that should discover Me sitting at this window without thee: —Just not to be at home, not from the window Of my long girlhood's chamber to look out Into the darkness, has a dangerous, Peculiar and confusing power, as if I lay upon the open road, no man's possession, As fully mine as never in my dreams! A maiden's life is much more strictly ruled By pressure of the air, than thou conceivest, To whom it seems most natural to be free. The evening ne'er must come, when I should thus Stand here, with all the weight of heavy shadows, My parents' eyes, all, all behind me thrust, Involved in yon dark hangings at my back, And this brave landscape with the golden stars, The gentle breeze, the bushes, thus before me. (With growing agitation.) The evening ne'er must come, when I should see All this with eyes like these, to say to me: Here lies a road that shimmers in the moonlight: Before the gentle breeze the next light cloudlet Impels to meet the moon, a man could run That road unto its end, between the hedges, Then comes a cross-road, now a planted field, And then the shadow of the standing corn, At last a garden! There his hand would touch At once a curtain, back of which is all: All kissing, laughing, all the happiness This world can give promiscuously flung About like balls of golden wool, such bliss That but a drop of it on parched lips Suffices to be lighter than a flame, To see no more of difficulty, nor To understand what men call ugliness! (Almost shrieking.) The evening ne'er must come, that with a thousand Unfettered tongues should cry to me: why not? Why hast thou never run in dark of night That road? Thy feet were young, thy breath sufficient: Why hast thou saved it, that thou mightst have plenty To weep a thousand nights upon thy pillow? [She turns her back to the window, clutches the table, collapses and falls to her knees, and remains thus, her face pressed to the table, her body shaken with weeping. A long pause.]

MERCHANT. And if the first door I should open wide, The only locked one on this road of love? [He opens the small doorway leading into the garden on the right; the moonlight enters.]

SOBEIDE (still kneeling by the table). Art thou so cruel as, in this first hour, To make a silly pastime of my weeping! Art thou so fain to put thy scorn upon me? Art thou so proud of holding me securely?

MERCHANT (with the utmost self-control). How much I could have wished that thou hadst learned To know me otherwise, but now there is No time for that. Thy father, if 'tis this which so constrains thee, Thy father owes me nothing now, indeed Within some days agreements have been made Between us twain, from which some little profit And so, I hope, a much belated gleam Of joyousness may come.

[She has crept closer to him on her knees, listening.]

So then thou mightest— Thou mayst, I mean to say, if it was this That lamed thee most, if in this—alien dwelling Again thou feel the will to live, which thou Hadst lost, if, as from heavy sleep aroused, Yet not awake, thou feel it is this portal That leads thee out to pulsing, waking life— Then in the name of God and of the stars I give thee leave to go where'er thou wilt.

SOBEIDE (still on her knees). What?

MERCHANT. I do no more regard thee as my wife Than any other maid who, for protection From tempest or from robbers by the wayside, Had entered for a space into my house, And I renounce herewith my claim upon thee, Just as I have no valid right to any, Whom such a chance might cast beneath my roof.

SOBEIDE. What sayest thou?

MERCHANT. I say that thou art free To pass out through this door, and where thou wilt. Free as the wind, the butterfly, the water.

SOBEIDE (half standing). To go?

MERCHANT. To go.

SOBEIDE. Where'er I will?

MERCHANT. Where 'er

Thou wilt, and at what time thou wilt.

SOBEIDE (still half dazed, now at the door). Now? Here?

MERCHANT. Or now, or later. Here, or otherwhere.

SOBEIDE (doubtfully). But to my parents only?

MERCHANT (in a more decided tone). Where thou wilt.

SOBEIDE (laughing and Weeping at once). This dost thou then? O never in a dream I ventured such a thought, in maddest dreams I ne'er had crept to thee upon my knees

[She falls on her knees before him.]

With this request, lest I should see thy laughter Upon such madness ... yet thou doest it, Thou doest it! O thou! Thou good, good man!

[He raises her gently, she stands bewildered.]

MERCHANT (turns away). When wilt thou go?

SOBEIDE. This very instant, now! O be not angry, think not ill of me! Consider: can I tarry in thy house, A stranger's house this night? Must I not go At once to him, since I belong to him? How may his property this night inhabit An alien house, as it were masterless?

MERCHANT (bitterly). Already his?

SOBEIDE. Why sir, a proper woman Is never masterless: for from her father Her husband takes her, she belongs to him, Be he alive or resting in the earth. Her next and latest master—that is Death.

MERCHANT. Then wilt thou not, at least till break of day, Return to rest at home?

SOBEIDE. No, no, my friend. All that is past. My road, once and for all, Is not the common one, this hour divides Me altogether from all maiden ways. So let me walk it to its very end In this one night, that in a later day All this be like a dream, nor I have need To feel ashamed.

MERCHANT. Then go!

SOBEIDE. I give thee pain?

[MERCHANT turns away.]

Permit a single draught from yonder goblet.

MERCHANT. It was my mother's, take it to thyself.

SOBEIDE. I cannot. Lord. But let me drink from it.

[Drinks.]

MERCHANT. Drain this, and never mayst thou need in life To quench thy thirst with wine from any goblet Less pure than that.

SOBEIDE. Farewell.

MERCHANT. Farewell.

[She is already on the threshold.]

Hast thou no fear? Thou never yet hast walked Alone. We dwell without the city wall.

SOBEIDE. Dear friend, I feel above all weakling fear, And light my foot, as never in the daytime.

[Exit.]

MERCHANT (after following her long with his eyes, with a gesture of pain). As if some plant were drawing quiet rootlets From out my heart, to take wing after her, And air were entering all the empty sockets!

[He steps away from the window.]

Does she not really seem to me less fair, So hasty, so desirous to run thither, Where scarce she knows if any wait her coming! No: 'tis her youth that I must see aright; This is a part of all things beautiful, And all this haste becomes this creature just As mute aspects become the fairest flowers.

[Pause.]

I think what I have done is of a part With my conception of the world's great movement. I will not have one set of lofty thoughts When I behold high up the circling stars, And others when a young girl stands before me. What there is truth, must be so here as well, And I must say, if yonder wedded child Cannot endure to harbor in her spirit Two things, of which the one belies the other, Am I prepared to make my acts deny What I have learned through groping premonition And reason from that monstrous principle That towers upon the earth and strikes the stars? I call it Life, that monstrous thing, this too Is life—and who might venture to divide them? And what is ripeness, if not recognizing That men and stars have but one law to guide them? And so herein I see the hand of fate, That bids me live as lonely as before, And heirless—when I speak the last good-by— And with no loving hand in mine, to die.



SCENE II

A wainscoted room in SHALNASSAR'S house. An ascending stairway, narrow and steep, in the right background; a descending one at the left. A gallery of open woodwork with openings, inner balconies, runs about the entire stage. Unshaded hanging lamps. Curtained doorways to the left and right. Against the left wall a low bench, farther to the rear a table and seats. Old SHALNASSAR sits on the bench near the left doorway, wrapped in a cloak. Before him stands a young man, the impoverished merchant.

SHALNASS. Were I as rich as you regard me—truly I am not so, quite far from that, my friend— I could not even then grant this postponement, Nay, really, friend, and solely for your sake: For too indulgent creditors, by Heaven, Are debtors' ruin.

DEBTOR. Hear me now, Shalnassar!

SHALNASS. No more. I can hear nothing. Yea, my deafness But grows apace with all your talking. Go! Go home, I say: think how you may retrench. I know your house, 'tis overrun with vermin, I mean the servants. Curtail the expenses Your wife has caused: they are most unbecoming For your position. What? I am not here To give you counsel. Home with you, I tell you.

DEBTOR. I wanted to, my heart detains me here, This heart that swells with pain. Go home? To me The very door of my own house is hateful. I cannot enter, but some creditor Would block my way.

SHALNASS. Well, what a fool you were. Go home and join your lovely wife, be off! Go home! Bring offspring into life. Then starve!

[He claps his hands. The Armenian slave comes up the stairs. SHALNASSAR whispers with him, without heeding the other.]

DEBTOR. Not fifty florins have I in the world. You spoke of servants? Aye, one withered crone To carry water, that is all. And she How long? No wretch abandoned, fed with alms, Feels misery like mine: for I have known The sweets of wealth. Through every night I slept, Contentment round my head, and sweet was morning. But hush! she loves me still, and so my failure Is bright and golden. O, she is my wife!

SHALNASS. I beg you, go, the lamps will have to burn So long as you are standing round. Go with him. Here are the keys.

Debtor (overcoming his fear). A word, good Shalnassar! I had not wished to beg you for reprieve.

SHALNASS. What? Does my deafness cause me some illusion?

DEBTOR. No, really.

SHALNASS. But?

DEBTOR. But for another loan.

SHALNASS (furious). What do You want?

DEBTOR. Not what I want, but must. Thou never hast beheld her, thou must see her! My heavy heart gives o'er its sullen beating And leaps with joy, whene'er I look upon her.

(With growing agitation.)

All this must yet be altered. Her fair limbs Are for the cult of tenderness created, Not for the savage claws of desperation. She cannot go a-begging, with such hair. Her mouth is proud as it is sweet. O, fate Is trying to outwit me—but I scorn it— If thou couldst see her, old man—

SHALNASS. I will see her! Tell her the man of years, upon whose gold Her husband young so much depends—now mark: The good old man, say, the decrepit gray-beard— Desired to see her. Tell her men of years Are childish, why should this one not be so? But still a call is little. Tell her this: It is almost a grave that she would visit, A grave just barely breathing. Will you do't?

DEBTOR. I've heard it said that you adore your gold Like something sacred, and that next to that You love the countenance of anguished men, And looks that mirror forth the spirit's pain. But you are old, have sons, and so I think These evil sayings false. And therefore I Will tell her this, and if perchance she asks me, "What thinkest thou?" then I will say, "My dearest, Peculiar, but not bad."—Farewell, but pray you, When your desire is granted, let not mine, Shalnassar, wait long for its due fulfilment.

[The DEBTOR and the Armenian slave exeunt down the stairs.]

SHALNASS. (alone, rises, stretches, seems much taller now). A honeyed fool is that, a sweet-voiced babbler, "Hear, aged man!"—"I beg you, aged man!" I've heard men say his wife is beautiful, And has such fiery color in her hair That fingers tumbling it feel heat and billows At once. If she comes not, then she shall learn To sleep on naked straw.... ... 'Twere time to sleep. They say that convalescents need much sleep. But if I must be deaf, then I'll be deaf To wisdom such as this. Sleep is naught other Than early death. I would enjoy my nights Together with the days still left to me. I will be generous, whenas I please: To Guelistane I Will give more this evening Than she could dream. And this shall be my pretext To have her change her room and take a chamber Both larger and near mine. If she will do't, Her bath shall be the juice of violets, roses, Or pinks, and gold and amber she shall quaff, Until the roof-beams reel in dizzy madness.

[He claps his hands, a slave comes. Exit left, followed by slave. GUeLISTANE comes up the stairs, an old slave-woman behind her. GANEM bends forward from a niche above, spies GUeLISTANE and comes down the stairs.]

GANEM (takes her by the hand). My dream, whence comest thou? So long I lay To wait for thee.

[The old slave-woman mounts the stairs.]

GUeLISTANE. I? From my bath I come And go now to my chamber.

GANEM. How thou shinest From bathing.

GUeLISTANE. It was flowing, glowing silver Of moonlight.

GANEM. Were I one of yonder trees, I would cast off my foliage with a quiver, And leap to thee! O were I master here!

GUeLISTANE. Aye, if thou wert! Thy father is quite well. He bade me dine alone with him this evening.

GANEM. Accursed skill, that roused this blood again, Which was already half coagulated. I saw him speaking with thee just this morning. What was it?

GUeLISTANE.

I have told thee.

GANEM. Speak, was that all? Thou liest, there was more!

GUeLISTANE. He asked me—

GANEM. What? But hush, the walls have ears.

[She whispers.]

Beloved! While thou art speaking, ripes in me a plan, Most wonderful, note well, and based on this: He now is but the shadow of himself, And though he still stands threatening there, his feet Are clay. His wrath is thunder without lightning. And—mark me well—all this his lustfulness Is naught but senile braggadocio.

GUeLISTANE. Well, What dost thou base on this?

GANEM. The greatest hope.

[He whispers.]

GUeLISTANE. But such a poison— Suppose there should be one of such a nature, To end the life, but leave the corpse unmarred— This poison none will sell thee.

GANEM. Aye, no man, A woman will—

GUeLISTANE. For what reward?

GANEM. For this, That, thinking I am wed, she also thinks To call me husband—after.

GUeLISTANE. Who'll believe it?...

GANEM. There long has been a woman who believes it.

GUeLISTANE. Thou liest: saidst thou not the plan was new? And now thou sayst there long has been a woman.

GANEM. There has: I meshed her in this web of lies Before I saw the goal. Today 'tis clear.

GUeLISTANE. Who is't?

GANEM. The limping daughter of a poor Old pastrycook, who lives in the last alley Down in the sailors' quarter.

GUeLISTANE. And her name?

GANEM. What's in a name? Her eyes, with doglike fear, Clung to me when I passed, one of those faces That lure me, since so greedily they drink In lies, and weave out of themselves such fancies. And so I oft would stand and talk to her.



From the Painting by Walter Leistikow

GUeLISTANE. And who gives her the poison?

GANEM. Why, her father, By keeping it where she can steal it from him.

GUeLISTANE. What? He a pastry-maker?

GANEM. But quite skilful, And very poor—and yet not to be purchased By us at any price: he is of those Who secretly reject our holy books, And eat no food on which our shadow falls. I'll visit her, while thou art eating dinner With him.

GUeLISTANE. So each will have his part to play.

GANEM. But mine shall end all further repetition Of thine. Soon I return. Make some excuse To leave him. If I found thee with him—

GUeLISTANE (puts her hand over his mouth). Hush!

GANEM (overcome). How cool thy fingers are, and yet, how burns Thy blood within them, sorceress! Thou holdest Me captive in the deepest cell, and feedest Me e'er at midnight with thy kennels' leavings; Thou scourgest me, and in the dust I grovel.

GUeLISTANE. E'en so, and thou?

GANEM (crushed by her look). And I? [Looks down at his feet.] My name is Ganem, Ganem, the slave of love. [He sinks before her, clasping her feet.]

GUeLISTANE. Go quickly, go! I hear thy father, go! I bid thee go! I will not have them find us here together.

GANEM. I have a silly smile, quite meaningless, 'Twould serve me well to look him in the face.

[GUeLISTANE goes up the stairs. The Armenian slave comes from below. GANEM turns to go out on the right.]

SLAVE. Was Guelistane with thee?

GANEM. [Shrugs his shoulders.]

SLAVE. But thou wast speaking.

GANEM. Aye, with my hound.

SLAVE. Then she is doubtless here.

[He goes up the stairs. The stage remains empty awhile, then SHALNASSAR enters from the left with three slaves hearing vessels and ornaments. He has everything set down by the left wall, where there is a table with low seats.]

SHALNASS. Put this down here, this here. Now ye may serve.

[He goes to the lowest step of the stairway.]

Ah, convalescents, so they say, should seek The sun. Well, here I stand,

[GUeLISTANE comes down and he leads her to the gifts.]

And know no more Of sickness, than that amber is its work, And pearls, when it resides in trees or oysters. My word, they both are here. And here are birds, Quite lifelike, woven into gleaming silk, If it be worth thy while to look at them.

GUeLISTANE. This is too much.

SHALNASS. Aye, for a pigeon-house, But scarcely for a chamber large enough To hold such rose-perfume as yonder vases Exhale, and yet not fill the air to stifling.

GUeLISTANE. O see, what wondrous vases!

SHALNASS. This is onyx, And that one Chrysophrase, beneath thy notice. Impenetrable they are called, but odors Can pass their walls as they were rotten wood.

GUeLISTANE. How thank thee?

[SHALNASSAR does not understand.]

GUeLISTANE. How, I say, am I to thank thee?

SHALNASS. By squandering all this: This desk of sandal-wood and inlaid pearl Use stead of withered twigs on chilly nights To warm thy bath: watch how the flames will sparkle, With sweet perfume!

[A dog is heard to give tongue, then several.]

GUeLISTANE. What sheer and fragile lace! [Lifts it up.]

SHALNASS. Dead, lifeless stuff. I'll bring to thee a dwarf, Hath twenty tongues of beasts and men within him. Instead of apes and parrots I will give thee Most curious men, abortions of the trees That marry with the air. They sing by night.

GUeLISTANE. Thou shalt have kisses.

[The baying of the dogs grows stronger, seems nearer.]

SHALNASS. Say, do young lovers Give better gifts?

GUeLISTANE. What wretched blunderers In this great art, but what a master thou!

[The Armenian slave comes, plucks SHALNASSAR by the sleeve, and whispers.]

SHALNASS. A maiden sayst thou? Doubtless 'tis a woman, But young? I do not understand.

GUeLISTANE. What maiden meanest thou. Beloved?

SHALNASS. None, none. I merely bade this slave "remain," And thou misheardest. (To the slave.) Hither come, speak softly.

SLAVE. She is half dead with fear, for some highwayman Pursued her here, and then the dogs attacked her And pulled her down. All out of breath she asked me, "Is this Shalnassar's house, the carpet-dealer?"

SHALNASS. It is the wife of that sweet fool. He sent her. Be still. (He goes to GUeLISTANE, who is just putting a string of pearls about her throat.) O lovely! they're not worth their place. [He goes back to the slave.]

SLAVE. She also speaks of Ganem.

SHALNASS. Of my son? All one. Say, is she fair?

SLAVE. I thought so.

SHALNASS. What!

SLAVE. But all deformed with fear.

GUeLISTANE. Some business?

SHALNASS (to her). None, But serving thee.

[He puts out his hand to close the clasp at her neck, but fails.]

GUeLISTANE. Forbear!

SHALNASS (puts his hand to his eye). A little vein Burst in my eye. I must behold thee dance, To make the blood recede.

GUeLISTANE. A strange idea.

SHALNASS. Come, for my sake.

GUeLISTANE. Why, then I must put up My hair.

SHALNASS. Then put it up. I cannot live While thou delayest.

[GUeLISTANE goes up the stairs.] (To the slave.)

Lead her here to me. Say only this: the one she seeks awaits her. Mark that: the one she seeks; no more.

[He walks up and down; exit slave.]

No being is so simple; no, I cannot Believe there are such fools. Highwaymen, bosh! He sent her here, and all that contradicts it Is simply lies. I little thought that she would come tonight, But gold draws all this out of nothingness. I'll keep her if she pleases me: her husband Shall never see her face again. With fetters Of linked gold I'll deck her pretty ankles. I'll keep them both and make them both so tame That they will swing like parrots in one ring.

[The slave leads SOBEIDE up the stairs. She is agitated, her eyes staring, her hair disheveled, the strings of pearls torn off. She no longer wears her veil.]

SHALNASS. O that my son might die for very wrath! Well, well, and how she trembles and dissembles.

[He motions the slave out.]

SOBEIDE (looks at him fearfully). Art thou Shalnassar?

SHALNASS. Yes. And has thy husband—

SOBEIDE. My husband? Knowst thou that? Why, did I not Just now ... was it not just this very night?... What?... or dost thou surmise?

SHALNASS. Coquettish chatter May do for youthful apes. But I am old, And know the power that I have over you.

SOBEIDE. That power thou hast, but thou wilt not employ it To do me hurt.

SHALNASS. No, by the eternal light! But I am not a maker of sweet sayings, Nor fond of talk. Deliberate flattery I put behind me: The mouth that sucks the sweetness of the fruit Is mute. And this is chiefly autumn's trade. Yea, though the spring may breathe a sweeter odor, Old autumn laughs at him.—Nay, look not so Upon my hand. Because 'tis full of veins, Rank weeds, in which the juice of life dries up.— O, it will seize thee yet and it can hold thee! What, pain so soon? I'll soothe it with a string Of pearls, come, come!

[Tries to draw her away.]

SOBEIDE (frees herself). Have mercy, thou, my poor enfeebled brain Is all deranged. Is it to me thou speakest? Speak, thou art surely drunken or wouldst mock me. Knowst thou then who I am? Oh yes, thou saidst My husband. Yes, this was my wedding-day! Knowst thou it? When I stood with him alone, My husband, then it all came over me; I wept aloud, and when he asked me, then I lifted up my voice against him, spoke To him of Ganem, of thy son, and told him The whole. I'll tell thee later how it was. Just now I know not. Only this: the door He opened for me, kindly, not in anger, And said to me I was no more his wife, And I might go where'er I would.—Then go And fetch me Ganem! Fetch him here for me!

SHALNASS. (angrily grasps his beard). Accursed deception! Speak, what devil let thee in?

SOBEIDE. Dear sir, I am the only child of Bachtjar, The jeweler.

SHALNASS. (claps his hands, the slave comes). Call Ganem.

SOBEIDE (involuntarily). Call him hither.

SHALNASS. (to the slave). Bring up the dinner. Is the dwarf prepared?

SLAVE. They're feeding him; for till his hunger's gone, He is too vicious.

SHALNASS. Good, I'll go and see it. [Exit with the slave to the left.]

SOBEIDE (alone). Now I am here. Does fortune thus begin? Yes, this has had to come, and all these colors I know because I dreamed them, mingled thus. We drink from goblets which a little child, With eyes that sparkle as through garlands gay, Holds out—but from the branches of a tree-top Black drops drip down into the goblet's bowl And mingle death and night with what we drink.

[She sits down on the bench.]

With whatsoe'er we do some night is mingled, And e'en our eye has something of its blackness. The glitter in the fabrics of our looms Is but the woof, the pattern, its true warp Is night. Aye, death is everywhere; and with our glances And with our words we cover him from sight, And like the children, when in merry playing They hide some toy, so we forget forthwith That we are hiding death from our own glances. Oh, if we e'er have children, they must keep From knowing this for many, many years. Too soon I learned it. And the cruel pictures Are evermore in me: they perch within me Like turtle-doves in copses and come swarming Upon the least alarm.

[She looks up.]

But now Ganem will come. Oh, if my heart Would cease from holding all my blood compressed. I'm wearied unto death. Oh, I could sleep.