STRANGER. As the discoverer I can't give away my secret. But that's not necessary, because I've submitted my results to an authority under oath.

CAESAR. Then the whole thing's nonsense, the whole thing! We don't believe authorities—we're free-thinkers. Did you ever hear anything so impudent? That we should honour a mystery man, an arch-swindler, a charlatan, in good faith.

FATHER. Wait a little, my good people!

(During this scene a wall screen, charmingly decorated with palm trees and birds of paradise, has been taken away, disclosing a wretched serving-counter and stand for beer mugs, behind which a waitress is seen dispensing tots of spirits. Scavengers and dirty-looking women go over to the counter and start drinking.)

STRANGER. Was I asked here to be insulted?

FATHER. Not at all. My friend's rather loquacious, but he's not said anything insulting yet.

STRANGER. Isn't it insulting to be called a charlatan?

FATHER. He didn't mean it seriously.

STRANGER. Even as a joke I think the word arch-swindler slanderous.

FATHER. He didn't use that word.

STRANGER. What? I appeal to the company: wasn't the word he used arch-swindler?

ALL. No. He never said that!

STRANGER. Then I don't know where I am—or what company I've got into.

RAGGED PERSON. Is there anything wrong with it?

(The people murmur.)

BEGGAR (comes forward, supporting himself on crutches; he strikes the table so hard with his crutch, that some mugs are broken.) Mr. Chairman! May I speak? (He breaks some more crockery.) Gentlemen, in this life I've not allowed thyself to be easily deceived, but this time I have been. My friend in the chair there has convinced me that I've been completely deceived on the question of his power of judgment and sound understanding, and I feel touched. There are limits to pity and limits also to cruelty. I don't like to see real merit being dragged into the dust, and this man's worth a better fate than his folly's leading him to.

STRANGER. What does this mean?

(The FATHER and the DOCTOR have gone out during this scene without attracting attention. Only beggars remain at the high table. Those who are drinking gather into groups and stare at the STRANGER.)

BEGGAR. You take yourself to be the man of the century, and accept the invitation of the Drunkards' Society, in order to have yourself feted as a man of science....

STRANGER (rising). But the government....

BEGGAR. Oh yes, the Committee of the Drunkards' Society have given you their highest distinction—that order you've had to pay for yourself....

STRANGER. What about the professor?

BEGGAR. He only calls himself that; he's no professor really, though he does give lessons. And the uniform that must have impressed you most was that of a lackey in a chancellery.

STRANGER (tearing of the wreath and the ribbon of the order). Very well! But who was the elderly man with the eyeglass?

BEGGAR. Your father-in-law!

STRANGER. Who got up this hoax?

BEGGAR. It's no hoax, it's quite serious. The professor came on behalf of the Society, for so they call themselves, and asked you whether you'd accept the fete. You accepted it; so it became serious!

(Two dirty-looking women carry in a dust-bin suspended from a stick and set it down on the high table.)

FIRST WOMAN. If you're the man who makes gold, you might buy two brandies for us.

STRANGER. What's this mean?

BEGGAR. It's the last part of the reception; and it's supposed to mean that gold's mere rubbish.

STRANGER. If only that were true, rubbish could be exchanged for gold.

BEGGAR. Well, it's only the philosophy of the Society of Drunkards. And you've got to take your philosophy where you find it.

SECOND WOMAN (sitting down next to the STRANGER). Do you recognise me?

STRANGER. No.

SECOND WOMAN. Oh, you needn't be embarrassed so late in the evening as this!

STRANGER. You believe you're one of my victims? That I was amongst the first hundred who seduced you?

SECOND WOMAN. No. It's not what you think. But I once came across a printed paper, when I was about to be confirmed, which said that it was a duty to oneself to give way to all desires of the flesh. Well, I grew free and blossomed; and this is the fruit of my highly developed self!

STRANGER (rising). Perhaps I may go now?

WAITRESS (coming over with a bill). Yes. But the bill must be paid first.

STRANGER. What? By me? I haven't ordered anything.

WAITRESS. I know nothing of that; but you're the last of the company to have had anything.

STRANGER (to the BEGGAR). Is this all a part of the reception?

BEGGAR. Yes, certainly. And, as you know, everything costs money, even honour....

STRANGER (taking a visiting card and handing it to the waitress). There's my card. You'll be paid to-morrow.

WAITRESS (putting the card in the dust-bin). Hm! I don't know the name; and I've put a lot of such cards into the dust-bin. I want the money.

BEGGAR. Listen, madam, I'll guarantee this man will pay.

WAITRESS. So you'd like to play tricks on me too! Officer! One moment, please.

POLICEMAN. What's all this about? Payment, I suppose. Come to the station; we'll arrange things there. (He writes something in his note-book.)

STRANGER. I'd rather do that than stay here and quarrel.... (To the BEGGAR.) I don't mind a joke, but I never expected such cruel reality as this.

BEGGAR. Anything's to be expected, once you challenge persons as powerful as you have! Let me tell you this in confidence. You'd better be prepared for worse, for the very worst!

STRANGER. To think I've been so duped... so...

BEGGAR. Feasts of Belshazzar always end in one way a hand's stretched out—and writes a bill. And another hand's laid on the guest's shoulder and leads him to the police station! But it must be done royally!

POLICEMAN (laying his hand on the STRANGER). Have you talked enough?

THE WOMEN and RAGGED ONES. The alchemist can't pay. Hurrah! He's going to gaol. He's going to gaol!

SECOND WOMAN. Yes, but it's a shame.

STRANGER. You're sorry for me? I thank you for that, even if I don't quite deserve it! You felt pity for me!

SECOND WOMAN. Yes. That's also something I learnt from you.

(The scene is changed without lowering the curtain. The stage is darkened, and a medley of scenes, representing landscapes, palaces, rooms, is lowered and brought forward; so that characters and furniture are no longer seen, but the STRANGER alone remains visible and seems to be standing stiffly as though unconscious. At last even he disappears, and from the confusion a prison cell emerges.)

SCENE II

PRISON CELL

[On the right a door; and above it a barred opening, through which a ray of sunlight is shining, throwing a patch of light on the left-hand wall, where a large crucifix hangs.]

[The STRANGER, dressed in a brown cloak and wearing a hat, is sitting at the table looking at the patch of sunlight. The door is opened and the BEGGAR is let in.]

BEGGAR. What are you brooding over?

STRANGER. I'm asking myself why I'm here; and then: where I was yesterday?

BEGGAR. Where do you think?

STRANGER. It seems in hell; unless I dreamed everything.

BEGGAR. Then wake up now, for this is going to be reality.

STRANGER. Let it come. I'm only afraid of ghosts.

BEGGAR (taking out a newspaper). Firstly, the great authority has withdrawn the certificate he gave you for making gold. He says, in this paper, that you deceived him. The result is that the paper calls you a charlatan!

STRANGER. O God! What is it I'm fighting?

BEGGAR. Difficulties, like other men.

STRANGER. No, this is something else....

BEGGAR. Your own credulity, then.

STRANGER. No, I'm not credulous, and I know I'm right.

BEGGAR. What's the good of that, if no one else does.

STRANGER. Shall I ever get out of this prison? If I do, I'll settle everything.

BEGGAR. The matter's arranged; everything's paid for.

STRANGER. Oh? Who paid, then?

BEGGAR. The Society, I suppose; or the Drunkard's Government.

STRANGER. Then I can go?

BEGGAR. Yes. But there's one thing....

STRANGER. Well, what is it?

BEGGAR. Remember, an enlightened man of the world mustn't let himself be taken by surprise.

STRANGER. I begin to divine....

BEGGAR. The announcement's on the front page.

STRANGER. That means: she's already married again, and my children have a stepfather. Who is he?

BEGGAR. Whoever he is, don't murder him; for he's not to blame for taking in a forsaken woman.

STRANGER. My children! O God, my children!

BEGGAR. I notice you didn't foresee what's happened; but why not look ahead, if you're so old and such an enlightened man of the world.

STRANGER (beside himself). O God! My children!

BEGGAR. Enlightened men of the world don't weep! Stop it, my son. When such disasters happen men of the world... either... well, tell me....

STRANGER. Shoot themselves!

BEGGAR. Or?

STRANGER. No, not that!

BEGGAR. Yes, my son, precisely that! He's throwing out a sheet-anchor as an experiment.

STRANGER. This is irrevocable. Irrevocable!

BEGGAR. Yes, it is. Quite irrevocable. And you can live another lifetime, in order to contemplate your own rascality in peace.

STRANGER. You should be ashamed to talk like that.

BEGGAR. And you?

STRANGER. Have you ever seen a human destiny like mine?

BEGGAR. Well, look at mine!

STRANGER. I know nothing of yours.

BEGGAR. It's never occurred to you, in all our long acquaintance, to ask about my affairs. You once scorned the friendship I offered you, and fell straightway into the arms of boon companions. I hope it'll do you good. And so farewell, till the next time.

STRANGER. Don't go.

BEGGAR. Perhaps you'd like company when you get out of prison?

STRANGER. Why not?

BEGGAR. It hasn't occurred to you I mightn't want to show myself in your company?

STRANGER. It certainly hasn't.

BEGGAR. But it's true. Do you think I want to be suspected of having been at that immortal banquet in the alchemist's honour, of which there's an account in the morning paper?

STRANGER. He doesn't want to be seen with me!

BEGGAR. Even a beggar has his pride and fears ridicule.

STRANGER. He doesn't want to be seen with me. Am I then sunk to such misery?

BEGGAR. You must ask yourself that, and answer it, too.

(A mournful cradle song is heard in the distance.)

STRANGER. What's that?

BEGGAR. A song sung by a mother at her baby's cradle.

STRANGER. Why must I be reminded of it just now?

BEGGAR. Probably so that you can feel really keenly what you've left for a chimera.

STRANGER. Is it possible I could have been wrong? If so it's the devil's work, and I'll lay down my arms.

BEGGAR. You'd better do that as soon as you can....

STRANGER. Not yet! (A rosary can be heard being repeated in the distance.) What's that? (A sustained note of a horn is heard.) That's the unknown huntsman! (The chord from the Dead March is heard.) Where am I? (He remains where he is as if hypnotised.)

BEGGAR. Bow yourself or break!

STRANGER. I cannot bow!

BEGGAR. Then break.

(The STRANGER falls to the ground. The same confused medley of scenes as before.)

Curtain.

SCENE III

THE 'ROSE' ROOM

[The same scene as Act I. The kneeling Sisters of Mercy are now reading their prayer books, '... exules filii Evae; Ad to suspiramus et flentes In hac lacrymarum aalle.' The MOTHER is by the door at the back; the FATHER by the door on the right.]

MOTHER (going towards him). So you've come back again?

FATHER (humbly). Yes.

MOTHER. Your lady-love's left you?

RATHER. Don't be more cruel than you need!

MOTHER. You say that to me, you who gave my wedding presents to your mistress. You, who were so dishonourable as to expect me, your wife, to choose presents for her. You, who wanted my advice about colour and cut, in order to educate her taste in dress! What do you want here?

FATHER. I heard that my daughter...

MOTHER. Your daughter's lying there, between life and death; and you know that her feelings for you have grown hostile. That's why I ask you to go; before she suspects your presence.

FATHER. You're right, and I can't answer you. But let me sit in the kitchen, for I'm tired. Very tired.

MOTHER. Where were you last night?

FATHER. At the club. But I wanted to ask you if the husband weren't here?

MOTHER. Am I to lay bare all this misery? Don't you know your daughter's tragic fate?

FATHER. Yes... I do. And what a husband!

MOTHER. What men! Go downstairs now and sleep off your liquor.

FATHER. The sins of the fathers....

MOTHER. You're talking nonsense.

FATHER. Of course I don't mean my sins... but those of our parents. And now they say the lake up there's to be drained, so that the river will rise....

MOTHER (pushing him out of the door). Silence. Misfortune will overtake us soon enough, without you calling it up.

MAID (from the bedroom at the back). The lady's asking for the master.

MOTHER. She means her husband.

MAID. Yes. The master of the house, her husband.

MOTHER. He went out a little while ago.

(The STRANGER comes in.)

STRANGER. Has the child been born?

MOTHER. No. Not yet.

STRANGER (putting his hand to his forehead). What? Can it take so long?

MOTHER. Long? What do you mean?

STRANGER (looking about him). I don't know what I mean. How is it with the mother?

MOTHER. She's just the same.

STRANGER. The same?

MOTHER. Don't you want to get back to your gold making?

STRANGER. I can't make head or tail of it! But there's still hope my worst dream was nothing but a dream.

MOTHER. You really look as if you were walking in your sleep.

STRANGER. Do I? Oh, I wish I were! The one thing I fear I'd fear no longer.

MOTHER. He who guides your destiny seems to know your weakest spots.

STRANGER. And when there was only one left, he found that too; happily for me only in a dream! Blind Powers! Powerless Ones!

MAID (coming in again). The lady asks you to do her a service.

STRANGER. There she lies like an electric eel, giving shocks from a distance. What kind of service is it to be now?

MAID. There's a letter in the pocket of her green coat.

STRANGER. No good will come of that! (He takes the letter out of the green coat, which is hanging near the dress by fireplace.) I must be dead. I dreamed this, and now it's happening. My children have a stepfather!

MOTHER. Who are you going to blame?

STRANGER. Myself! I'd rather blame no one. I've lost my children.

MOTHER. You'll get a new one here.

STRANGER. He might be cruel to them....

MOTHER. Then their sufferings will burden your conscience, if you have one.

STRANGER. Supposing he were to beat them?

MOTHER. Do you know what I'd do in your place?

STRANGER. Yes, I know what you'd do; but I don't know what I'll do.

MOTHER (to the Sisters of Mercy). Pray for this man!

STRANGER. No, no. Not that! It'll do no good, and I don't believe in prayer.

MOTHER. But you believe in your gold?

STRANGER. Not even in that. It's over. All over!

(The MIDWIFE comes out of the bedroom.)

MIDWIFE. A child's born. Praise the Lord!

MOTHER. Let the Lord be praised!

SISTERS. Let the Lord be praised!

MIDWIFE (to the STRANGER). Your wife's given you daughter.

MOTHER (to the STRANGER). Don't you want to see your child?

STRANGER. No. I no longer want to tie myself anything on earth. I'm afraid I'd get to love her, and then you'd tear the heart from my body. Let me get out of this atmosphere, which is too pure for me. Don' t let that innocent child come near me, for I'm a man already damned, already sentenced, and for me there's no joy, no peace, and no... forgiveness!

MOTHER. My son, now you're speaking words of wisdom! Truthfully and without malice: I welcome your decision. There's no place for you here, and amongst us women you'd be plagued to death. So go in peace.

STRANGER. There'll be no more peace, but I'll go. Farewell!

MOTHER. Exules filii Evae; on earth you shall be a fugitive and a vagabond.

STRANGER. Because I have slain my brother.

Curtain.



ACT IV

SCENE I

BANQUETING HALL

[The room in which the banquet took place in Act III. It is dirty, and furnished with unpainted wooden tables. Beggars, scavengers and loose women. Cripples are seated here and there drinking by the light of tallow dips.]

[The STRANGER and the SECOND WOMAN are sitting together drinking brandy, which stands on the table in front of them in a carafe. The STRANGER is drinking heavily.]

WOMAN. Don't drink so much!

STRANGER. You see. You've scruples, too!

WOMAN. No. But I don't like to see a man I respect lowering himself so.

STRANGER. But I came here specially to do so; to take a mud-bath that would harden my skin against the pricks of life. To find immoral support about me. And I chose your company, because you're the most despicable, though you've still retained a spark of humanity. You were sorry for me, when no one else was. Not even myself! Why?

WOMAN. Really, I don't know.

STRANGER. But you must know that there are moments when you look almost beautiful.

WOMAN. Oh, listen to him!

STRANGER. Yes. And then you resemble a woman who was dear to me.

WOMAN. Thank you!

WAITRESS. Don't talk so loud, there's a sick man here.

STRANGER. Tell me, have you ever been in love?

WOMAN. We don't use that word, but I know what you mean. Yes. I had a lover once and we had a child.

STRANGER. That was foolish!

WOMAN. I thought so, too, but he said the days liberation were at hand, when all chains would be struck off, all barriers thrown down, and...

STRANGER (tortured). And then...?

WOMAN. Then he left me.

STRANGER. He was a scoundrel. (He drinks.)

WOMAN (looking at him.) You think so?

STRANGER. Yes. He must have been.

WOMAN. Now you're so intolerant.

STRANGER (drinking). Am I?

WOMAN. Don't drink so much; I want to see you far above me, otherwise you can't raise me up.

STRANGER. What illusions you must have! Childish! I lift you up! I who am down below. Yet I'm not; it's not I who sit here, for I'm dead. I know that my soul's far away, far, far away.... (He stares in front of him with an absent-minded air)... where a great lake lies in the sunshine like molten gold; where roses blossom on the wall amongst the vines; where a white cot stands under the acacias. But the child's asleep and the mother's sitting beside the cot doing crochet work. There's a long, long strip coming from her mouth and on the strip is written... wait... 'Blessed are the sorrowful, for they shall be comforted.' But that's not so, really. I shall never be comforted. Tell me, isn't there thunder in the air, it's so close, so hot?

WOMAN (looking out of the window). No. I can see no clouds out there....

STRANGER. Strange... that's lightning.

WOMAN. No. You're wrong.

STRANGER. One, two, three, four, five... now the thunder must come! But it doesn't. I've never been frightened of a thunderstorm until to-day—I mean, until to-night. But is it day or night?

WOMAN. My dear, it's night.

STRANGER. Yes. It is night.

(The DOCTOR has come in during this scene and has sat down behind the STRANGER, without having been seen by him.)

WAITRESS. Don't speak so loud, there's a sick person in here.

STRANGER (to the WOMAN). Give me your hand.

WOMAN (wiping it on her apron). Oh, why?

STRANGER. You've a lovely white hand. But... look at mine. It's black. Can't you see it's black?

WOMAN. Yes. So it is!

STRANGER. Blackened already, perhaps even rotten? I must see if my heart's stopped. (He puts his hand to his heart.) Yes. It has! So I'm dead, and I know when I died. Strange, to be dead, and yet to be going about. But where am I? Are all these people dead, too? They look as if they'd risen from the sewers of the town, or as if they'd come from prison, poorhouse or lock hospital. They're workers of the night, suffering, groaning, cursing, quarrelling, torturing one another, dishonouring one another, envying one another, as if they possessed anything worthy of envy! The fire of sleep courses through their veins, their tongues cleave to their palates, grown dry through cursing; and then they put out the blaze with water, with fire-water, that engenders fresh thirst. With fire-water, that itself burns with a blue flame and consumes the soul like a prairie fire, that leaves nothing behind it but red sand. (He drinks.) Set fire to it. Put it out again. Set fire to it. Put it out again! But what you can't burn up—unluckily—is the memory of what's past. How can that memory be burned to ashes?

WAITRESS. Please don't speak so loud, there's a sick man in here. So ill, that he's already asked to be given the sacrament.

STRANGER. May he soon go to hell!

(Those present murmur at this, resenting it.)

WAITRESS. Take care! Take care!

WOMAN (to the STRANGER). Do you know that man who's been sitting behind you, staring at you all the time?

STRANGER (turning. He and the DOCTOR stare at one another for a moment, without speaking). Yes. I used to know him once.

WOMAN. He looks as if he'd like to bite you in the back.

(The DOCTOR sits down opposite the STRANGER and stares at him.)

STRANGER. What are you looking at?

DOCTOR. Your grey hairs.

STRANGER (to the WOMAN). Is my hair grey?

WOMAN. Yes. Indeed it is!

DOCTOR. And now I'm looking at your fair companion. Sometimes you have good taste. Sometimes not.

STRANGER. And sometimes you have the misfortune to have the same taste as I.

DOCTOR. That wasn't a kind remark! But you've killed me twice in your lifetime; so go on.

STRANGER (to the WOMAN). Let's get away from here.

DOCTOR. You know when I'm near you. You feel my presence from afar. And I shall reach you, as the thunder will, whether you hide in the depths of the earth or of the sea.... Try to escape me, if you can!

STRANGER (to the WOMAN). Come with me. Lead me... I can't see....

WOMAN. No, I don't want to go yet. I don't want to be bored.

DOCTOR. You're right there, daughter of joy! Life's hard enough without taking on yourself the sorrows others have brought on themselves. That man won't bear his own sorrows, but makes his wife shoulder the burden for him.

STRANGER. What's that? Wait! She bore false witness of a breach of the peace and attempted murder!

DOCTOR. Now he's putting the blame on her!

STRANGER (resting his head in his hands and letting it sink on to the table. In the far distance a violin and guitar are heard playing the following melody):

[See picture road1.jpg]

DOCTOR (to the WOMAN). Is he ill?

WOMAN. He must be mad; he says he's dead.

(In the distance drums beat the reveille and bugles are blown, but very softly.)

STRANGER. Is it morning? Night's passing, the sun's rising and ghosts lie down to sleep again in graves. Now I can go. Come!

WOMAN (going nearer to the DOCTOR). No. I said no.

STRANGER. Even you, the last of all my friends! Am I such a wretched being, that not even a prostitute will bear me company for money?

DOCTOR. You must be.

STRANGER. I don't believe it yet; although everyone tells me so. I don't believe anything at all, for every time I have, I've been deceived. But tell me this hasn't the sun yet risen? A little while ago I heard a cock crow and a dog bark; and now they're ringing the Angelus.... Have they put out the lights, that it's so dark?

DOCTOR (to the WOMAN). He must be blind.

WOMAN. Yes. I think he is.

STRANGER. No. I can see you; but I can't see the lights.

DOCTOR. For you it's growing dark.... You've played with the lightning, and looked too long at the sun. That is forbidden to men.

STRANGER. We're born with the desire to do it; but may not. That's Envy....

DOCTOR. What do you possess that's worthy of envy?

STRANGER. Something you'll never understand, and that only I can value.

DOCTOR. You mean, the child?

MANGER. You know I didn't mean it. If I had I'd have said that I possessed something you could never let.

DOCTOR. So you're back at that! Then I'll express myself as clearly: you took what I'd done with.

WOMAN. Oh! I shan't stay in the company of such swine! (She gets up and moves to another seat.)

STRANGER. I know we've sunk very low; yet I believe the deeper I sink the nearer I'll come to my goal: the end!

WAITRESS. Don't speak so loud, there's a dying man in there!

STRANGER. Yes, I believe you. The whole time there's been a smell of corpses here.

DOCTOR. Perhaps that's us?

STRANGER. Can one be dead, without suspecting it?

DOCTOR. The dead maintain that they don't know the difference.

STRANGER. You terrify me. Is it possible? And all these shadowy figures, whose faces I think I recognise as memories of my youth at school in the swimming bath, the gymnasium.... (He clutches his heart.) Oh! Now he's coming: the Terrible One, who tears the heart out of the breast. The Terrible One, who's been following me for years. He's here!

(He is beside himself. The doors are thrown open; a choir boy comes in carrying a lantern made of blue glass that throws a blue light on the guests; he rings the silver bell. All present begin to howl like wild beasts. The DOMINICAN then enters with the sacrament. The WAITRESS and the WOMAN throw themselves on their knees, the others howl. The DOMINICAN raises the monstrance; all fall on their knees. The choir boy and the DOMINICAN go into the room on the left.)

BEGGAR (entering and going towards the STRANGER). Come away from here. You're ill. And the bailiffs have a summons for you.

STRANGER. Summons? From whom?

BEGGAR. Your wife.

DOCTOR. The electric eel strikes at a great distance. She once wanted to bring a charge of slander against me, because she couldn't stay out at night.

STRANGER. Couldn't stay out at night?

DOCTOR. Yes. Didn't you know who you were married to?

STRANGER. I heard she'd been engaged before she... married you.

DOCTOR. Yes. That's what it was called, but in reality she'd been the mistress of a married man, whom she denounced for rape, after she'd forced herself into his studio and posed to him naked, as a model.

STRANGER. And that was the woman you married?

DOCTOR. Yes. After she'd seduced me, she denounced me for breach of promise, so I had to marry her. She'd engaged two detectives to see I didn't get away. And that was the woman you married!

STRANGER. I did it because I soon saw it was no good choosing when all were alike.

BEGGAR. Come away from here. You'll be sorry if you don't.

STRANGER (to the DOCTOR). Was she always religious?

DOCTOR. Always.

STRANGER. And tender, good-hearted, self-sacrificing?

DOCTOR. Certainly!

STRANGER. Can one understand her?

DOCTOR. No. But you can go mad thinking about her. That's why one had to accept her as she was. Charming, intoxicating!

STRANGER. Yes, I know. But one's powerless against pity. That's why I don't want to fight this case. I can't defend myself without attacking her; and I don't want to do that.

DOCTOR. You were married before. How was that?

STRANGER. Just the same.

DOCTOR. This love acts like henbane: you see suns, where there are none, and stars where no stars are! But it's pleasant, while it lasts!

STRANGER. And the morning after? Oh, the morning after!

BEGGAR. Come, unhappy man! He's poisoning you, and you don't know it. Come!

STRANGER (getting up). Poisoning me, you say? Do you think he's lying?

BEGGAR. Every word he's said's a lie.

STRANGER. I don't believe it.

BEGGAR. No. You only believe lies. But that serves you right.

STRANGER. Has he been lying? Has he?

BEGGAR. How can you believe your enemies?

STRANGER. But he's my friend, because he's told me the bitter truth.

BEGGAR. Eternal Powers, save his reason! For he believes everything evil's true, and everything good evil. Come, or you'll be lost!

DOCTOR. He's lost already! And now he'll be whipped into froth, broken up into atoms, and used as an ingredient in the great pan-cake. Away with you hell! (To those present.) Howl like victims of the pit. (The guests all howl.) And no more womanly pity. Howl, woman! (The WOMAN refuses with a gesture of her hand.)

STRANGER (to the BEGGAR). That man's not lying.

Curtain.

SCENE II

IN A RAVINE

[A ravine with a stream in the middle, which is crossed by a foot-bridge. In the foreground a smithy and a mill, both of which are in ruins. Fallen trees choke the stream. In the background a starry sky above the pine wood. The constellation of Orion is clearly visible.]

[See picture road2.jpg]

[The STRANGER and the BEGGAR enter. In the foreground there is snow; in the background the green of summer.]

STRANGER. I feel afraid! To-night the stars seem to hang so low, that I fear they'll fall on me like drops of molten silver. Where are we?

BEGGAR. In the ravine, by the stream. You must know the place.

STRANGER. Know it? As if I could ever forget it! It reminds me of my honeymoon journey. But where are the smithy and the mill?

BEGGAR. All in ruins! The lake of tears was drained a week ago. The stream rose, then the river, till everything was laid waste—meadows, fields and gardens.

STRANGER. And the quiet house?

BEGGAR. The old sin was washed away, but the walls in left.

STRANGER. And those who lived there?

BEGGAR. They've gone to the colonies; so that the story's now at an end.

STRANGER. Then my story's at an end too. So thoroughly at an end, that no happy memories remain. The last was fouled by the poisoner....

BEGGAR. Whose poison you prepared! You should declare your bankruptcy.

STRANGER. Yes. Now I'll have to give in.

BEGGAR. Then the day of reckoning will draw near.

STRANGER. I think we might call it quits; because, if I've sinned, I've been punished.

BEGGAR. But others certainly won't think so.

STRANGER. I've stopped taking account of others, since I saw that the Powers that guide the destinies of mankind brook no accomplices. The crime I committed in this life was that I wanted to set men free....

BEGGAR. Set men free from their duties, and criminals from their feeling of guilt, so that they could really become unscrupulous! You're not the first, and not the last to dabble in the Devil's work. Lucifer a non lucendo! But when Reynard grows old, he turns monk—so wisely is it ordained—and then he's forced to split himself in two and drive out Beelzebub with his own penance.

STRANGER. Shall I be driven to that?

BEGGAR. Yes. Though you don't want it! You'll be forced to preach against yourself from the housetops. To unpick your fabric thread by thread. To flay yourself alive at every street corner, and show what you really are. But that needs courage. All the same, a man who's played with the thunder will not tremble! Yet, sometimes, when night falls and the Invisible Ones, who can only be seen in darkness, ride on his chest, then he will fear—even the stars, and most of all the Mill of Sins, that grinds the past, and grinds it... and grinds it! One of the seven-and-seventeen Wise Men said that the greatest victory he ever won was over himself; but foolish men don't believe it, and that's why they're deceived; because they only credit what nine-and-ninety fools have said a thousand times.

STRANGER. Enough! Tell me; isn't this snow here on the ground?

BEGGAR. Yes. It's winter here.

STRANGER. But over there it's green.

BEGGAR. It's summer there.

STRANGER. And growing light! (A clear beam of light falls on the foot-bridge.)

BEGGAR. Yes. It's light there, and dark here.

STRANGER. And who are they? (Three children, dressed is summer clothing, two girls and a boy, come on to the bridge from the right.) Ho! My children! (The children stop to listen, and then look at the STRANGER without seeming to recognise him. The STRANGER calls.) Gerda! Erik! Thyra! It's your father! (The children appear to recognise him; they turn away to the left.) They don't know me. They don't want to know me.

(A man and a woman enter from the right. The children dance of to the left and disappear. The STRANGER falls on his face on the ground.)

BEGGAR. Something like that was to be expected. Such things happen. Get up again!

STRANGER (raising himself up). Where am I? Where have I been? Is it spring, winter or summer? In what century am I living, in what hemisphere? Am I a child or an old man, male or female, a god or a devil? And who are you? Are you, you; or are you me? Are those my own entrails that I see about me? Are those stars or bundles of nerves in my eye; is that water, or is it tears? Wait! Now I'm moving forward in time for a thousand years, and beginning to shrink, to grow heavier and to crystallise! Soon I'll be re-created, and from the dark waters of Chaos the Lotus flower will stretch up her head towards the sun and say: it is I! I must have been sleeping for a few thousand years; and have dreamed I'd exploded and become ether, and could no longer feel, no longer suffer, no longer be joyful; but had entered into peace and equilibrium. But now! Now! I suffer as much as if I were all mankind. I suffer and have no right to complain....

BEGGAR. Then suffer, and the more you suffer the earlier pain will leave you.

STRANGER. No. Mine are eternal sufferings....

BEGGAR. And only a minute's passed.

STRANGER. I can't bear it.

BEGGAR. Then you must look for help.

STRANGER. What's coming now? Isn't it the end yet?

(It grows light above the bridge. CAESAR comes in and throws himself from the parapet; then the DOCTOR appears on the right, with bare head and a wild look. He behaves as if he would throw himself into the stream too.)

STRANGER. He's revenged himself so thoroughly, that he awakes no qualms of conscience! (The DOCTOR goes out, left. The SISTER enters, right, as if searching for someone.) Who's that?

BEGGAR. His unmarried sister, who's unprovided for, and has now no home to go to. She's grown desperate since her brother was driven out of his wits by sorrow and went to pieces.

STRANGER. That's a harder fate. Poor creature, what can one do? Even if I felt her sufferings, would that help her?

BEGGAR. No. It wouldn't.

STRANGER. Why do qualms of conscience come after, and not beforehand? Can you help me over that?

BEGGAR. No. No one can. Let us go on.

STRANGER. Where to?

BEGGAR. Come with me.

Curtain.

SCENE III

THE 'ROSE' ROOM

[The LADY, dressed in white, is sitting by the cradle doing crochet work. The green dress is hanging up by the door on the right. The STRANGER comes in, and looks round in astonishment.]

LADY (simply, mildly, without a trace of surprise). Tread softly and come here, if you'd see something lovely.

STRANGER. Where am I?

LADY. Quiet! Look at the little stranger who came when you were away.

STRANGER. They told me the river had risen and swept everything off.

LADY. Why do you believe everything you're told? The river did rise, but this little creature has someone who protects both her and hers. Wouldn't you like to see your daughter? (The STRANGER goes towards the cradle. The LADY lifts the curtain.) She's lovely! Isn't she? (The STRANGER gazes darkly in front of him.) Won't you look?

STRANGER. Everything's poisoned. Everything!

LADY. Well, perhaps!

STRANGER. Do you know that he has lost his wits and is wandering in the neighbourhood, followed by his sister, who's searching for him? He's penniless, and drinking....

LADY. Oh, my God!

STRANGER. Why don't you reproach me?

LADY. You'll reproach yourself enough: I'd rather give you good advice. Go to the Convent of St. Saviour's, there you'll find a man who can free you from the evil you fear.

STRANGER. What, in the convent, where they curse and bind?

LADY. And deliver also!

STRANGER. Frankly, I think you're trying to deceive me; I don't trust you any more.

LADY. Nor I, you! So look on this as your farewell visit.

STRANGER. That was my intention; but first I wanted to find out if we're of the same mind....

LADY. You see, we can build no happiness on the sorrows of others; so we must part. That's the only way to lessen his sufferings. I have my child, who'll fill my life for me; and you have the great goal of your ambition....

STRANGER. Will you still mock me?

LADY. No, why? You've solved the great problem.

STRANGER. Be quiet! No more of that, even if you believe it.

LADY. But if all the rest believe it too....

STRANGER. No one believes it now.

LADY. It says in the paper to-day that gold's been made in England. That it's been proved possible.

STRANGER. You've been deceived.

LADY. No! Oh, heaven, he won't believe his own good fortune.

STRANGER. I no longer believe anything.

LADY. Get the newspaper from the pocket of my dress over there.

STRANGER. The green witch's dress, that laid a spell on me one Sunday afternoon, between the inn and the church door! That'll bring no good.

LADY (fetching the paper herself and also a large parcel that is in the pocket of the dress). See for yourself.

STRANGER (tearing up the paper). No need for me to look!

LADY. He won't believe it. He won't. Yet the chemists want to give a banquet in your honour next Saturday.

STRANGER. Is that in the paper too? About the banquet?

LADY (handing him the packet). And here's the diploma of honour. Read it!

STRANGER (tearing up the packet). Perhaps there's a Government Order too!

LADY. Those whom the gods would destroy they first make blind! You made your discovery with no good intentions, and therefore you weren't permitted to be the only one to succeed.

STRANGER. Now I shall go. For I won't stay here and lay bare my shame! I've become a laughing-stock, so I'll go and hide myself—bury myself alive, because I don't dare to die.

LADY. Then go! We start for the colonies in a few days.

STRANGER. That's frank at least! Perhaps we're nearing a solution.

LADY. Of the riddle: why we had to meet?

STRANGER. Why did we have to?

LADY. To torture one another.

STRANGER. Is that all?

LADY. You thought you could save me from a werewolf, who really was no such thing, and so you become one yourself. And then I was to save you from evil by taking all the evil in you on myself, and I did so; but the result was that you only became more evil. My poor deliverer! Now you're bound hand and foot and no magician can set you free.

STRANGER. Farewell, and thank you for all you've done.

LADY. Farewell, and thank you... for this! (She points to the cradle.)

STRANGER (going towards the back). First perhaps I ought to take my leave in there.

LADY. Yes, my dear. Do!

(The STRANGER goes out through the door at the back. The LADY crosses to the door on the right and lets in the DOMINICAN—who is also the BEGGAR.)

CONFESSOR. Is he ready now?

LADY. Nothing remains for this unhappy man but to leave the world and bury himself in a monastery.

CONFESSOR. So he doesn't believe he's the great inventor he undoubtedly is?

LADY. No. He can believe good of no one, not even of himself.

CONFESSOR. That is the punishment Heaven sent him: to believe lies, because he wouldn't listen to the truth.

LADY. Lighten his guilty burden for him, if you can.

CONFESSOR. No. If I did he'd only grow insolent and accuse God of malice and injustice. This man is a demon, who must be kept confined. He belongs to the dangerous race of rebels; he'd misuse his gifts, if he could, to do evil. And men's power for evil is immeasurable.

LADY. For the sake of the... attachment you've shown me, can't you ease his burden a little; where it presses on him most and where he's least to blame?

CONFESSOR. You must do that, not I; so that he can leave you in the belief that you've a good side, and that you're not what your first husband told him you were. If he believes you, I'll deliver him later, just as I once bound him when he confessed to me, during his illness, in the convent of St. Saviour's.

LADY (going to the back and opening the door). As you wish!

STRANGER (re-entering). So there's the Terrible One! How did he come here? But isn't he the beggar, after all?

CONFESSOR. Yes, I am your terrible friend, and I've come for you.

STRANGER. What? Have I...?

CONFESSOR. Yes. Once already you promised me your soul, on oath, when you lay ill and felt near madness. It was then you offered to serve the powers of good; but when you got well again you broke your oath, and therefore were plagued with unrest, and wandered abroad unable to find peace—tortured by your own conscience.

STRANGER. Who are you really? Who dares lay a hand on my destiny?

CONFESSOR. You must ask her that.

LADY. This is the man to whom I was first engaged, and who dedicated his life to the service of God, when I left him.

STRANGER. Even if he were!

LADY. So you needn't think so ill of yourself because it was you who punished my faithlessness and another's lack of conscience.

STRANGER. His sin cannot justify mine. Of course it's untrue, like everything else; and you only say it to console me.

CONFESSOR. What an unhappy soul he is....

STRANGER. A damned one too!

CONFESSOR. No! (To the LADY.) Say something good of him.

LADY. He won't believe it, if I do; he only believes evil!

CONFESSOR. Then I shall have to say it. A beggar once came and asked him for a drink of water; but he gave me wine instead and let me sit at his table. You remember that?

STRANGER. No. I don't load my memory with such trifles.

CONFESSOR. Pride! Pride!

STRANGER. Call it pride, if you like. It's the last vestige of our god-like origin. Let's go, before it grows dark.

CONFESSOR. 'For the whole world shined with clear light and none were hindered in their labour. Over these only was spread a heavy night, an image of darkness which should afterward receive them; but yet were they unto themselves more grievous than the darkness.'

LADY. Don't hurt him!

STRANGER (with passion). How beautifully she can speak, though she is evil. Look at her eyes; they cannot weep tears, but they can flatter, sting, or lie! And yet she says: Don't hurt him! See, now she fears I'll wake her child, the little monster that robbed me of her! Come, priest, before I change my mind.

Curtain.



PART III.

CHARACTERS

THE STRANGER THE LADY THE CONFESSOR THE MAGISTRATE THE PRIOR THE TEMPTER THE DAUGHTER

less important figures HOSTESS FIRST VOICE SECOND VOICE WORSHIPPERS OF VENUS MAIA PILGRIM FATHER WOMAN EVE PRIOR PATER ISIDOR (the Doctor of Part I) PATER CLEMENS PATER MELCHER

SCENES

ACT I On the River Bank

ACT II Cross-Roads in the Mountains

ACT III SCENE I Terrace SCENE II Rocky Landscape SCENE III Small House (On the Mountain where the Monastery Stands)

ACT IV SCENE I Chapter House SCENE II Picture Gallery SCENE III Chapel (Of the Monastery)



ACT I

ON THE RIVER BANK

[The foreground represents the bank of a large river. On the right a projecting tongue of land covered with old willow trees. Farther up stage the river can be seen flowing quietly past. The background represents the farther bank, a steep mountain slope covered with woodland. Above the tops of the forest trees the Monastery can be seen; it is an enormous four-cornered building completely white, with two rows of small windows. The facade is broken by the Church belonging to the Monastery, which is flanked by two towers in the style favoured by the Jesuits. The Church door is open, and at a certain moment the monstrance on the altar is visible in the light of the sun. On the near bank in the foreground, which is low and sandy, purple and yellow loose-strife are growing. A shallow boat is moored nearby. On the left the ferryman's hut. It is an evening in early summer and the sun is low; foreground, river and the lower part of the background lie in shadow; and the trees on the far bank sway gently in the breeze. Only the Monastery is lit by the sun.]

[The STRANGER and the CONFESSOR enter from the right. The STRANGER is wearing alpine clothing: a brown cloak with a cape and hood; he has a staff and wallet. He is limping slightly. The CONFESSOR is to the black and white habit of the Dominicans. They stop at a place where a willow tree prevents any view of the Monastery.]

STRANGER. Why do you lead me along this winding, hilly path, that never comes to an end?

CONFESSOR. Such is the way, my friend. But now we'll soon be there. (He leads the STRANGER farther up stage. The STRANGER sees the Monastery, and is enchanted by it; he takes off his hat, and puts down his wallet and staff.) Well?

STRANGER. I've never seen anything so white on this polluted earth. At most, only in my dreams! Yes, that's my youthful dream of a house in which peace and purity should dwell. A blessing on you, white house! Now I've come home!

CONFESSOR. Good! But first we must await the pilgrims on this bank. It's called the bank of farewell, because it's the custom to say farewell here, before the ferryman ferries one across.

STRANGER. Haven't I said enough farewells already? Wasn't my whole life one thorny path of farewells? At post offices, steamer-quays, railway stations—with the waving of handkerchiefs damp with tears?

CONFESSOR. Yet your voice trembles with the pain what you've lost.

STRANGER. I don't feel I've lost anything. I don't want anything back.

CONFESSOR. Not even your youth?

STRANGER. That least of all. What should I do with it, and its capacity for suffering?

CONFESSOR. And for enjoyment?

STRANGER. I never enjoyed anything, for I was born with a thorn in my flesh; every time I stretched out my hand to grasp a pleasure, I pricked my finger and Satan struck me in the face.

CONFESSOR. Because your pleasures have been base ones.

STRANGER. Not so base. I had my own home, a wife, children, duties, obligations to others! No, I was born in disfavour, a step-child of life; and I was pursued, hunted, in a word, cursed!

CONFESSOR. Because you didn't obey God's commandment.

STRANGER. But no one can, as St. Paul says himself! Why should I be able to do what no one else can do? I of all men? Because I'm supposed to be a scoundrel. Because more's demanded of me than of others.... (Crying out.) Because I was treated with injustice.

CONFESSOR. Have you got back to that, rebellious one?

STRANGER. Yes. I've always been there. Now let's cross the river.

CONFESSOR. Do you think one can climb up to that white house without preparation?

STRANGER. I'm ready: you can examine me.

CONFESSOR. Good! The first monastic vow is: humility.

STRANGER. And the second: obedience! Neither of them was ever a special virtue of mine; it's for that very reason that I want to make the great attempt.

CONFESSOR. And show your pride through your humility.

STRANGER. Whatever it is, it's all the same to me.

CONFESSOR. What, everything? The world and its best gifts; the joy of innocent children, the pleasant warmth of home, the approbation of your fellow-men, the satisfaction brought by the fulfilment of duty—are you indifferent to them all?

STRANGER. Yes! Because I was born without the power of enjoyment. There have been moments when I've been an object of envy; but I've never understood what it was I was envied for: my sufferings in misfortune, my lack of peace in success, or the fact I hadn't long to live.

CONFESSOR. It's true that life has given you everything you wished; even a little gold at the last. Why, I even seem to remember that a sculptor was commissioned to make a portrait bust of you.

STRANGER. Oh yes! A bust was made of me.

CONFESSOR. Are you, of all men, impressed by such things?

STRANGER. Of course not! But they do at least mark well founded appreciation, that neither envy nor lack of understanding can shake.

CONFESSOR. You think so? It seems to me that human greatness resides in the good opinion of others; and that, if this opinion changes, the greatest can quickly dwindle into nothing.

STRANGER. The opinions of others have never meant much to me.

CONFESSOR. Haven't they? Really?

STRANGER. No one's been so strict with himself as I! And no one's been so humble! All have demanded my respect; whilst they spurned me and spat on me. And when at last I found I'd duties towards the immortal soul given into my keeping, I began to demand respect for this immortal soul. Then I was branded as the proudest of the proud! And by whom? By the proudest of all amongst the humble and lowly.

CONFESSOR. I think you're entangling yourself in contradictions.

STRANGER. I think so, too! For the whole of life consists of nothing but contradictions. The rich are the poor in spirit; the many little men hold the power, and the great only serve the little men. I've never met such proud people as the humble; I've never met an uneducated man who didn't believe himself in a position to criticise learning and to do without it. I've found the unpleasantest of deadly sins amongst the Saints: I mean self-complacency. In my youth I was a saint myself; but I've never been so worthless as I was then. The better I thought myself, the worse I became.

CONFESSOR. Then what do you seek here?

STRANGER. What I've told you already; but I'll add this: I'm seeking death without the need to die!

CONFESSOR. The mortification of your flesh, of your old self! Good! Now keep still: the pilgrims are coming on their wooden rafts to celebrate the festival of Corpus Christi.

STRANGER (looking to the right in surprise). Who are they?

CONFESSOR. People who believe in something.

STRANGER. Then help my unbelief! (Sunlight now falls on the monstrance in the church above, so that it shines like a window pane at sunset.) Has the sun entered the church, or....

CONFESSOR. Yes. The sun has entered....

(The first raft comes in from the right. Children clothed in white, with garlands on their heads and with lighted lanterns in their hands, are seen standing round an altar decked with flowers, on which a white flag with a golden lily has been planted. They sing, whilst the raft glides slowly by.)

Blessed be he, who fears the Lord, Beati omnes, qui timent Dominum, And walks in his ways, Qui ambulant in viis ejus. Thou shalt feed thyself with the work of thy hands, Labores manuum tuarum quia manducabis; Blessed be thou and peace be with thee, Beatus es et bene tibi erit.

(A second raft appears with boys on one side and girls on the other. It has a flag with a rose on it.)

Thy wife shall be like a fruitful vine, Uxor tua sicut vitis abundans, Within thy house, In lateribus domus tuae.

(The third raft carries men and women. There is a flag with fruit upon it: figs, grapes, pomegranates, melons, ears of wheat, etc.)

Filii tui sicut novellae olivarum, Thy children shall be like olive branches about thy table, In circuitu mensae tuae.

(The fourth raft is filled with older men and women. The flag has a representation of a fir-tree under snow.)

See, how blessed is the man, Ecce sic benedicetur homo, Who feareth the Lord, Qui timet Dominum!

(The raft glides by.)

STRANGER. What were they singing?

CONFESSOR. A pilgrim's song.

STRANGER. Who wrote it?

CONFESSOR. A royal person.

STRANGER. Here? What was his name? Has he written anything else?

CONFESSOR. About fifty songs; he was called David, the son of Isaiah! But he didn't always write psalms. When he was young, he did other things. Yes. Such things will happen!

STRANGER. Can we go on now?

CONFESSOR. In a moment. I've something to say to you first.

STRANGER. Speak.

CONFESSOR. Good. But don't be either sad or angry.

STRANGER. Certainly not.

CONFESSOR. Here, you see, on this bank, you're a well-known—let's say famous—person; but over there, on the other, you'll be quite unknown to the brothers. Nothing more, in fact, than an ordinary simple man.

STRANGER. Oh! Don't they read in the monastery?

CONFESSOR. Nothing light; only serious books.

STRANGER. They take in papers, I suppose?

CONFESSOR. Not the kind that write about you!

STRANGER. Then on the other side of this river my life-work doesn't exist?

CONFESSOR. What work?

STRANGER. I see. Very well. Can't we cross now?

CONFESSOR. In a minute. Is there no one you'd like to take leave of?

STRANGER (after a pause.) Yes. But it's beyond the bounds of possibility.

CONFESSOR. Have you ever seen anything impossible?

STRANGER. Not really, since I've seen my own destiny.

CONFESSOR. Well, who is it you'd like to meet?

STRANGER. I had a daughter once; I called her Sylvia, because she sang all day long like a wren. It's some years since I saw her; she must be a girl of sixteen now. But I'm afraid if I were to meet her, life would regain its value for me.

CONFESSOR. You fear nothing else?

STRANGER. What do you mean?

CONFESSOR. That she may have changed!

STRANGER. She could only have changed for the better.

CONFESSOR. Are you sure?

STRANGER. Yes.

CONFESSOR. She'll come to you. (He goes down to the bank and beckons to the right.)

STRANGER. Wait! I'm wondering whether it's wise!

CONFESSOR. It can do no harm.

(He beckons once more. A boat appears on the river, rowed by a young girl. She is wearing summer clothing, her head is bare and her fair hair is hanging loose. She gets out of the boat behind the willow tree. The CONFESSOR draws back until he is near the ferryman's hut, but remains in sight of the audience. The STRANGER has waved to the girl and she has answered him. She now comes on to the stage, runs into the STRANGER'S arms, and kisses him.)

DAUGHTER. Father. My dear father!

STRANGER. Sylvia! My child!

DAUGHTER. How in the world do you come to be up here in the mountains?

STRANGER. And how have you got here? I thought I'd managed to hide so well.

DAUGHTER. Why did you want to hide?

STRANGER. Ask me as little as possible! You've grown into a big girl. And I've gone grey.

DAUGHTER. No. You're not grey. You're just as young as you were when we parted.

STRANGER. When we... parted!

DAUGHTER. When you left us.... (The STRANGER does not reply.) Aren't you glad we're meeting again?

STRANGER (faintly). Yes!

DAUGHTER. Then show it.

STRANGER. How can I be glad, when we're parting to-day for life?

DAUGHTER. Why, where do you want to go?

STRANGER (pointing to the monastery). Up there!

DAUGHTER (with a sophisticated air). Into the monastery? Yes, now I come to think of it, perhaps it's best.

STRANGER. You think so?

DAUGHTER (with pity, but good-will.) I mean, if you've a ruined life behind you.... (Coaxingly.) Now you look sad. Tell me one thing.

STRANGER. Tell me one thing, my child, that's been worrying me more than anything else. You've a stepfather?

DAUGHTER. Yes.

STRANGER. Well?

DAUGHTER. He's very good and kind.

STRANGER. With every virtue that I lack....

DAUGHTER. Aren't you glad we've got into better hands?

STRANGER. Good, better, best! Why do you come here bare-headed?

DAUGHTER. Because George is carrying my hat.

STRANGER. Who's George? And where is he?

DAUGHTER. George is a friend of mine; and he's waiting for me on the bank down below.

STRANGER. Are you engaged to him?

DAUGHTER. No. Certainly not!

STRANGER. Do you want to marry?

DAUGHTER. Never!

STRANGER. I can see it by your mottled cheeks, like those of a child that has got up too early; I can hear it by your voice, that's no longer that of a warbler, but a jay; I can feel it in your kisses, that burn cold like the sun in May; and by your steady icy look that tells me you're nursing a secret of which you're ashamed, but of which you'd like to boast. And your brothers and sisters?

DAUGHTER. They're quite well, thank you.

STRANGER. Have we anything else to say to one another?

DAUGHTER (coldly). Perhaps not.

STRANGER. Now you look so like your mother.

DAUGHTER. How do you know, when you've never been able to see her as she was!

STRANGER. So you understood that, though you were so young?

DAUGHTER. I learnt to understand it from you. If only you'd understand yourself.

STRANGER. Have you anything else to teach me?

DAUGHTER. Perhaps! But in your day that wasn't considered seemly.

STRANGER. My day's over and exists no longer; just as Sylvia exists no longer, but is merely a name, a memory. (He takes a guide-book out of his pocket.) Look at this guide-book! Can you see small marks made here by tiny fingers, and others by little damp lips? You made them when you were five years old; you were sitting on my knee in the train, and we saw the Alps for the first time. You thought what you saw was Heaven; and when I explained that the mountain was the Jungfrau, you asked if you could kiss the name in the book.

DAUGHTER. I don't remember that!

STRANGER. Delightful memories pass, but hateful ones remain! Don't you remember anything about me?

DAUGHTER. Oh yes.

STRANGER. Quiet! I know what you mean. One night... one dreadful, horrible night... Sylvia, my child, when I shut my eyes I see a pale little angel, who slept in my arms when she was ill; and who thanked me when I gave her a present. Where is she whom I long for so and who exists no more, although she isn't dead? You, as you are, seem a stranger, whom I've never known and certainly don't long to see again. If Sylvia at least were dead and lay in her grave, there'd be a churchyard where I could take my flowers.... How strange it is! She's neither among the living, nor the dead. Perhaps she never existed, and was only a dream like everything else.

DAUGHTER (wheedling).Father, dear!

STRANGER. It's she! No, only her voice. (Pause.) So you think my life's been ruined?

DAUGHTER. Yes. But why speak of it now?

STRANGER. Because remember I once saved your life. You had brain fever for a whole month and suffered a great deal. Your mother wanted the doctor to deliver you from your unhappy existence by some powerful drug. But I prevented it, and so saved you from death and your mother from prison.

DAUGHTER. I don't believe it!

STRANGER. But a fact may be true, even if you don't believe it.

DAUGHTER. You dreamed it.

STRANGER. Who knows if I haven't dreamed everything, and am not even dreaming now. How I wish it were so!

DAUGHTER. I must be going, father.

STRANGER. Then good-bye!

DAUGHTER. May I write to you?

STRANGER. What? One of the dead write to another? Letters won't reach me in future. And I mayn't receive visitors. But I'm glad we've met, for now there's nothing else on earth I cling to. (Going to the left.) Good-bye, girl or woman, whatever I should call you. There's no need to weep!

DAUGHTER. I wasn't thinking of weeping, though I dare say good breeding would demand I should. Well, good-bye! (She goes out right.)

STRANGER (to the CONFESSOR). I think I came out of that well! It's a mercy to part with content on both sides. Mankind, after all, makes rapid progress, and self-control increases as the flow of the tear-ducts lessens. I've seen so many tears shed in my lifetime, that I'm almost taken aback at this dryness. She was a strong child, just the kind I once wished to be. The most beautiful thing that life can offer! She lay, like an angel, wrapped in the white veils of her cradle, with a blue coverlet when she slept. Blue and arched like the sky. That was the best: what will the worst look like?

CONFESSOR. Don't excite yourself, but be of good cheer. First throw away that foolish guide-book, for this is your last journey.

STRANGER. You mean this? Very well. (He opens the book, kisses one of the pages and then throws it into the river.) Anything else?

CONFESSOR. If you've any gold or silver, you must give it to the poor.

STRANGER. I've a silver watch. I never got as far as a gold one.

CONFESSOR. Give that to the ferryman; and then you'll get a glass of wine.

STRANGER. The last! It's like an execution! Perhaps I'll have to have my hair cut, too?

CONFESSOR. Yes. Later. (He takes the watch and goes to the door of the ferryman's hut, speaking a few whispered words to someone within. He receives a bottle of wine and a glass in exchange, which he puts on the table.)

STRANGER (filling his glass, but not drinking it.) Shall I never get wine up there?

CONFESSOR. No wine; and you'll see no women. You may hear singing; but not the kind of songs that go with women and wine.

STRANGER. I've had enough of women; they can't tempt me any more.

CONFESSOR. Are you sure?

STRANGER. Quite sure.... But tell me this: what do you think of women, who mayn't even set their feet within your consecrated walls?

CONFESSOR. So you're still asking questions?

STRANGER. And why may an abbess never hear confession, never read mass, and never preach?

CONFESSOR. I can't answer that.

STRANGER. Because the answer would accord with my thoughts on that theme.

CONFESSOR. It wouldn't be a disaster if we were to agree for once.

STRANGER. Not at all!

CONFESSOR. Now drink up your wine.

STRANGER. No. I only want to look at it for the last time. It's beautiful....

CONFESSOR. Don't lose yourself in meditation; memories lie at the bottom of the cup.

STRANGER. And oblivion, and songs, and power—imaginary power, but for that reason all the greater.

CONFESSOR. Wait here a moment; I'll go and order the ferry.

STRANGER. 'Sh! I can hear singing, and I can see.... I can see.... For a moment I saw a flag unfurling in a puff of wind, only to fall back on the flagstaff and hang there limply as if it were nothing but a dishcloth. I've witnessed my whole life flashing past in a second, with its joys and sorrows, its beauty and its misery! But now I can see nothing.

CONFESSOR (going to the left). Wait here a moment, I'll go and order the ferry.

(The STRANGER goes so far up stage that the rays of the setting sun, which are streaming from the right through the trees, throw his shadow across the bank and the river. The LADY enters from the right, in deep mourning. Her shadow slowly approaches that of the STRANGER.)

STRANGER (who, to begin with, looks only at his own shadow). Ah! The sun! It makes me a bloodless shape, a giant, who can walk on the water of the river, climb the mountain, stride over the roof of the monastery church, and rise, as he does now, up into the firmament—up to the stars. Ah, now I'm up here with the stars.... (He notices the shadow thrown by the LADY.) But who's following me? Who's interrupting my ascension? Trying to climb on my shoulders? (Turning.) You!

LADY. Yes. I!

STRANGER. So black! So black and so evil.

LADY. No longer evil. I'm in mourning....

STRANGER. For whom?

LADY. For our Mizzi.

STRANGER. My daughter! (The LADY opens her arms, in order to throw herself on to his breast, but he avoids her.) I congratulate the dead child. I'm sorry for you. I myself feel outside everything.

LADY. Comfort me, too.

STRANGER. A fine idea! I'm to comfort my fury, weep with my hangman, amuse my tormentor.

LADY. Have you no feelings?

STRANGER. None! I wasted the feelings I used to have on you and others.

LADY. You're right. You can reproach me.

STRANGER. I've neither the time nor the wish to do that. Where are you going?

LADY. I want to cross with the ferry.

STRANGER. Then I've no luck, for I wanted to do the same. (The LADY weeps into her handkerchief. The STRANGER takes it from her and dries her eyes.) Dry your eyes, child, and be yourself! As hard, and lacking in feeling, as you really are! (The LADY tries to put her arm round his neck. The STRANGER taps her gently on the fingers.) You mustn't touch me. When your words and glances weren't enough, you always wanted to touch me. You'll excuse a rather trivial question: are you hungry?

LADY. No. Thank you.

STRANGER. But you're tired. Sit down. (The LADY sits down at the table. The STRANGER throws the bottle and glass into the river.) Well, what are you going to live for now?

LADY (sadly). I don't know.

STRANGER. Where will you go?

LADY (sobbing). I don't know.

STRANGER. So you're in despair? You see no reason for living and no end to your misery! How like me you are! What a pity there's no monastery for both sexes, so that we could pair off together. Is the werewolf still alive?

LADY. You mean...?

STRANGER. Your first husband.

LADY. He never seems to die.

STRANGER. Like a certain worm! (Pause.) And now that we're so far from the world and its pettiness, tell me this: why did you leave him in those days, and come to me?

LADY. Because I loved you.

STRANGER. And how long did that last?

LADY. Until I read your book, and the child was born.

STRANGER. And then?

LADY. I hated you! That is, I wanted to be rid of all the evil you'd given me, but I couldn't.

STRANGER. So that's how it was! But we'll never really know the truth.

LADY. Have you noticed how impossible it is to find things out? You can live with a person and their relations for twenty years, and yet not know anything about them.

STRANGER. So you've discovered that? As you see so much, tell me this: how was it you came to love me?

LADY. I don't know; but I'll try to remember. (Pause.) Well, you had the masculine courage to be rude to a lady. In me you sought the companionship of a human being and not merely of a woman. That honoured me; and, I thought, you too.

STRANGER. Tell me also whether you held me to be a misogynist?

LADY. A woman-hater? Every healthy man is one, in the secret places of his heart; and all perverted men are admirers of women.

STRANGER. You're not trying to flatter me, are you?

LADY. A woman who'd try to flatter a man's not normal.

STRANGER. I see you've thought a great deal!

LADY. Thinking's the least I've done; for when I've thought least I've understood most. Besides, what I said just how is perhaps only improvised, as you call it, and not true in the least.

STRANGER. But if it agrees with many of my observations it becomes most probable. (The LADY weeps into her handkerchief.) You're weeping again?

LADY. I was thinking of Mizzi. The loveliest thing we ever had is gone.

STRANGER. No. You were the loveliest thing, when you sat all night watching over your child, who was lying in your bed, because her cradle was too cold! (Three loud knocks are heard on the ferryman's door.) 'Sh!

LADY. What's that?

STRANGER. My companion, who's waiting for me.

LADY (continuing the conversation). I never thought life would give me anything so sweet as a child.

STRANGER. And at the same time anything so bitter.

LADY. Why bitter?

STRANGER. You've been a child yourself, and you must remember how we, when we'd just married, came to your mother in rags, dirty and without money. I seem to remember she didn't find us very sweet.

LADY. That's true.

STRANGER. And I... well, just now I met Sylvia. And I expected that all that was beautiful and good in the child would have blossomed in the girl....

LADY. Well?

STRANGER. I found a faded rose, that seemed to have blown too soon. Her breasts were sunken, her hair untidy like that of a neglected child, and her teeth decayed.

LADY. Oh!

STRANGER. You mustn't grieve. Not for the child! You might perhaps have had to grieve for her later, as I did.

LADY. So that's what life is?

STRANGER. Yes. That's what life is. And that's why I'm going to bury myself alive.

LADY. Where?

STRANGER (pointing to the monastery). Up there!

LADY. In the monastery? No, don't leave me. Bear me company. I'm so alone in the world and so poor, so poor! When the child died, my mother turned me out, and ever since I've been living in an attic with a dressmaker. At first she was kind and pleasant, but then the lonely evenings got too long for her, and she went out in search of company—so we parted. Now I'm on the road, and I've nothing but the clothes I'm wearing; nothing but my grief. I eat it and drink it; it nourishes me and sends me to sleep. I'd rather lose anything in the world than that! (The STRANGER weeps.) You're weeping. You! Let me kiss your eyelids.

STRANGER. You've suffered all that for my sake!

LADY. Not for your sake! You never did me an ill turn; but I plagued you till you left your fireside and your child!

STRANGER. I'd forgotten that; but if you say so.... So you still love me?

LADY. Probably. I don't know.

STRANGER. And you'd like to begin all over again?

LADY. All over again? The quarrels? No, we won't do that.

STRANGER. You're right. The quarrels would only begin all over again. And yet it's difficult to part.

LADY. To part. The word alone's terrible enough.

STRANGER. Then what are we to do?

LADY. I don't know.

STRANGER. No, one knows nothing, hardly even that one knows nothing; and that's why, you see, I've got as far as to believe.

LADY. How do you know you can believe, if belief's a gift?

STRANGER. You can receive a gift, if you ask for it.

LADY. Oh yes, if you ask; but I've never been able to beg.

STRANGER. I've had to learn to. Why can't you?

LADY. Because one has to demean oneself first.

STRANGER. Life does that for one very well.

LADY. Mizzi, Mizzi, Mizzi!... (She has taken a shawl she was carrying over her arm, rolled it up and put it on her knee like a baby in long clothes.) Sleep! Sleep! Sleep! Think of it! I can see her here! She's smiling at me; but she's dressed in black; she seems to be in mourning too! How stupid I am! Her mother's in mourning! She's got two teeth down below, and they're white—milk teeth; she should never have cut any others. Oh, can't you see her, when I can? It's no vision. It is her!

CONFESSOR (in the door of the ferryman's hut; sternly to the STRANGER). Come. Everything's ready!

STRANGER. No. Not yet. I must first set my house in order; and look after this woman, who was once my wife.

CONFESSOR. Oh, so you want to stay!

STRANGER. No. I don't want to stay; but I can't leave duties behind me unfulfilled. This woman's on the road, deserted, without a home, without money!

CONFESSOR. What has that to do with us? Let the dead bury their dead!

STRANGER. Is that your teaching?

CONFESSOR. No, yours.... Mine, on the other hand, commands me to send a Sister of Mercy here, to look after this unhappy one, who... who... The Sister will soon be here!

STRANGER. I shall count on it.

CONFESSOR (taking the STRANGER by the hand and drawing him away.) Then come!

STRANGER (in despair). Oh, God in heaven! Help us every one!

CONFESSOR. Amen!

(The LADY, who has not been looking at the CONFESSOR and the STRANGER, now raises her eyes and glances at the STRANGER as if she wanted to spring up and hold him back; but she is prevented by the imaginary child she has put to her breast.)

Curtain.



ACT II

CROSS-ROADS IN THE MOUNTAINS

[A cross-roads high up in the mountains. On the right, huts. On the left a small pool, round which invalids are sitting. Their clothes are blue and their hands cinnabar-red. From the pond blue vapour and small blue flames rise now and then. Whenever this happens the invalids put them hands to their mouths and cough. The background is formed by a mountain covered with pine-wood, which is obscured above by a stationary bank of mist.]

[The STRANGER is sitting at a table outside one of the huts. The CONFESSOR comes forward from the right.]

STRANGER. At last!

CONFESSOR. What do you mean: at last?

STRANGER. You left me here a week ago and told me to wait till you came back.

CONFESSOR. Hadn't I prepared you for the fact that the way to the white house up there would be long and difficult.

STRANGER. I don't deny it. How far have we come?

CONFESSOR. Five hundred yards. We've still got fifteen hundred.

STRANGER. But where's the sun?

CONFESSOR. Up there, above the clouds....

STRANGER. Then we shall have to go through them?

CONFESSOR. Yes. Of course.

STRANGER. What are those patients doing there? What a company! And why are their hands so red?

CONFESSOR. For both our sakes I want to avoid using impure words, so I'll speak in pleasant riddles, which you, as a writer, will understand.

STRANGER. Yes. Speak beautifully. There's so much that's ugly here.

CONFESSOR. You may have noticed that the signs given to the planets correspond with those of certain metals? Good! Then you'll have seen that Venus is represented by a mirror. This mirror was originally made of copper, so that copper was called Venus and bore her stamp. But now the reverse of Venus' mirror is covered with quicksilver or mercury!

STRANGER. The reverse of Venus... is Mercury. Oh!

CONFESSOR. Quicksilver is therefore the reverse side of Venus. Quicksilver is itself as bright as a calm sea, as a lake at the height of summer; but when mercury meets firestone and burns, it blushes and turns red like newly-shed blood, like the cloth on the scaffold, like the cinnabar lips of the whore! Do you understand now, or not?

STRANGER. Wait a moment! Cinnabar is quicksilver and sulphur.

CONFESSOR. Yes. Mercury must be burnt, if it comes too near to Venus! Have we said enough now?

STRANGER. So these are sulphur springs?

CONFESSOR. Yes. And the sulphur flames purify or burn everything rotten! So when the source of life's grown tainted, one is sent to the sulphur springs....

STRANGER. How does the source of life grow tainted?

CONFESSOR. When Aphrodite, born of the pure seafoam, wallows in the mire.... When Aphrodite Urania, the heaven-born, degrades herself to Pandemos, the Venus of the streets.

STRANGER. Why is desire born?

CONFESSOR. Pure desire, to be satisfied; impure, to be stifled.

STRANGER. What is pure, and what impure?

CONFESSOR. Have you got back to that?

STRANGER. Ask these men here....

CONFESSOR. Take care! (He looks at the STRANGER, who is unable to support his gaze.)

STRANGER. You're choking me.... My chest....

CONFESSOR. Yes, I'll steal the air you use to form rebellious words, and ask outrageous questions. Sit down there, I'll come back—when you've learnt patience and undergone your probation. But don't forget that I can hear and see you, and am aware of you, wherever I may be!

STRANGER. So I'm to be tested! I'm glad to know it!

CONFESSOR. But you mustn't speak to the worshippers of Venus.

(MAIA, an old woman, appears in the background.)

STRANGER (rising in horror). Who am I meeting here after all this time? Who is it?

CONFESSOR. Who are you speaking of?

STRANGER. That old woman there?

CONFESSOR. Who's she?

STRANGER (calling). Maia! Listen! (Old Maia has disappeared. The STRANGER hurries after her.) Maia, my friend, listen! She's gone!

CONFESSOR. Who was it?

STRANGER (sitting down). O God! Now, when I find her again at last, she goes.... I've looked for her for seven long years, written letters, advertised....

CONFESSOR. Why?

STRANGER. I'll tell you how her fate was linked to mine! (Pause.) Maia was the nurse in my first family... during those hard years... when I was fighting the Invisible Ones, who wouldn't bless my work! I wrote till my brain and nerves dissolved like fat in alcohol... but it wasn't enough! I was one of those who never could earn enough. And the day came when I couldn't pay the maids their wages—it was terrible—and I became the servant of my servant, and she became my mistress. At last... in order, at least, to save my soul, I fled from what was too powerful for me. I fled into the wilderness, where I collected my spirit in solitude and recovered my strength! My first thought then was—my debts! For seven years I looked for Maia, but in vain! For seven years I saw her shadow, out of the windows of trains, from the decks of steamers, in strange towns, in distant lands, but without ever being able to find her. I dreamed of her for seven years; and whenever I drank a glass of wine I blushed at the thought of old Maia, who perhaps was drinking water in a poorhouse! I tried to give the sum I owed her to the poor; but it was no use. And now—she's found and lost in the same moment! (He gets up and goes towards the back as if searching for her.) Explain this, if you can! I want to pay my debt; I can pay it now, but I'm not allowed to.

CONFESSOR. Foolishness' Bow to what seems inexplicable; you'll see that the explanation will come later. Farewell!

STRANGER. Later. Everything comes later.

CONFESSOR. Yes. If it doesn't come at once! (He goes out. The LADY enters pensively and sits down at the table, opposite the STRANGER.)

STRANGER. What? You back again? The same and not the same? How beautiful you've grown; as beautiful as you were the first time I ever saw you; when I asked if I might be your friend, your dog.

LADY. That you can see beauty I don't possess shows that once more you have a mirror of beauty in your eye. The werewolf never thought me beautiful, for he'd nothing beautiful with which to see me.

STRANGER. Why did you kiss me that day? What made you do it?

LADY. You've often asked me that, and I've never been able to find the answer, because I don't know. But just now, when I was away from you, here in the mountains, where the air's purer and the sun nearer.... Hush! Now I can see that Sunday afternoon, when you sat on that seat like a lost and helpless child, with a broken look in your eyes, and stared at your own destiny.... A maternal feeling I'd never known before welled up in me then, and I was overcome with pity, pity for a human soul—so that I forgot myself.

STRANGER. I'm ashamed. Now I believe it was so.

LADY. But you took it another way. You thought...

STRANGER. Don't tell me. I'm ashamed.

LADY. Why did you think so badly of me? Didn't you notice that I drew down my veil; so that it was between us, like the knight's sword in the bridal bed....

STRANGER. I'm ashamed. I attributed my evil thoughts to you. Ingeborg, you were made of better stuff than I. I'm ashamed!

LADY. Now you look handsome. How handsome!

STRANGER. Oh no. Not I. You!

LADY (ecstatically). No, you! Yes, now I've seen through the mask and the false beard. Now I can see the man you hid from me, the man I thought I'd found in you... the man I was always searching for. I've often thought you a hypocrite; but we're no hypocrites. No, no, we can't pretend.

STRANGER. Ingeborg, now we're on the other side of the river, and have life beneath us, behind us... how different everything seems. Now, now, I can see your soul; the ideal, the angel, who was imprisoned in the flesh because of sin. So there is an Above, and an Earlier Age. When we began it wasn't the beginning, and it won't be the end when we are ended. Life is a fragment, without beginning or end! That's why it's so difficult to make head or tail of it.

LADY (kindly). So difficult. So difficult. Tell me, for instance—now we're beyond guilt or innocence—how was it you came to hate women?

STRANGER. Let me think! To hate women? Hate them? I never hated them. On the contrary! Ever since I was eight years old I've always had some love affair, preferably an innocent one. And I've loved like a volcano three times! But wait—I've always felt that women hated me... and they've always tortured me.

LADY. How strange!

STRANGER. Let me think about it a little.... Perhaps I've been jealous of my own personality; and been afraid of being influenced too much. My first love made herself into a sort of governess and nurse to me. But, of course, there are men who detest children; who detest women too, if they're superior to them, that is!

LADY (amiably). But you've called women the enemies of mankind. Did you mean it?

STRANGER. Of course I meant it, if I wrote it! For I wrote out of experience, not theory.... In woman I sought an angel, who could lend me wings, and I fell into the arms of an earth-spirit, who suffocated me under mattresses stuffed with the feathers of wings! I sought an Ariel and I found a Caliban; when I wanted to rise she dragged me down; and continually reminded me of the fall....

LADY (kindly). Solomon knew much of women; do you know what he said? 'I find more bitter than death a woman, whose heart is snares and nets and her hands as bands; whoso pleaseth God shall escape from her; but the sinner shall be taken by her.'

STRANGER. I was never acceptable in God's sight. Was that a punishment? Perhaps. But I was never acceptable to anyone, and I've never had a good word addressed to me! Have I never done a good action? Is it possible for a man never to have done anything good? (Pause.) It's terrible never to hear any good words about oneself!

LADY. You've heard them. But when people have spoken well of you, you've refused to listen, as if it hurt you.

STRANGER. That's true, now you remind me. But can you explain it?

LADY. Explain it? You're always asking for explanations of the inexplicable. 'When I applied my heart to know wisdom... I beheld all the work of God, that a man cannot find out that is done under the sun. Because, though a man labour to seek it out, yet he shall not find it; yea, further, though a wise man think to know it, yet shall he not be able to find it!'

STRANGER. Who says that?

LADY. The Prophet Ecclesiastes. (She takes a doll out of her pocket.) This is Mizzi's doll. You see she longs for her little mistress! How pale she's grown... and she seems to know where Mizzi is, for she's always gazing up to heaven, whichever way I hold her. Look! Her eyes follow the stars as the compass the pole. She is my compass and always shows me where heaven is. She should, of course, be dressed in black, because she's in mourning; but we're so poor.... Do you know why we never had money? Because God was angry with us for our sins. 'The righteous suffer no dearth.'

STRANGER. Where did you learn that?

LADY. In a book in which everything's written. Everything! (She wraps the doll up in her cloak.) See, she's beginning to get cold—that's because of the cloud up there....

STRANGER. How can you dare to wander up here in the mountains?

LADY. God is with me; so what have I to fear from human beings?

STRANGER. Aren't you tormented by those people at the pool?

LADY (turning towards them). I can't see them. I can't see anything horrible now.

STRANGER. Ingeborg! I have made you evil, yet you're on the way to make me good! It was my dream, you know, to seek redemption through a woman. You don't believe it! But it's true. In the old days nothing was of value to me if I couldn't lay it at a woman's feet. Not as a tribute to an overbearing mistress,... but as a sacrifice to the beautiful and good. It was my pleasure to give; but she wanted to take and not receive: that's why she hated me! When I was helpless and thought the end was near, a desire grew in me to fall asleep on a mother's knee, on a tremendous breast where I could bury my tired head and drink in the tenderness I'd been deprived of.

LADY. You had no mother?

STRANGER. Hardly! And I've never felt any bond between myself and my father or my brothers and sisters.... Ingeborg, I was the son of a servant of whom it is written. 'Drive forth the handmaid with her son, for this son shall not inherit with the son of peace.'

LADY. Do you know why Ishmael was driven out? It says just before—that he was a scoffer. And then it goes on: 'He will be a wild man, his hand will be against every man, and every man's hand against him; and against all his brothers.'

STRANGER. Is that also written?

LADY. Oh yes, my child; it's all there!

STRANGER. All?

LADY. All. There you'll find answers to all your questions even the most inquisitive!

STRANGER. Call me your child, and then I'll love you.... And if I love anyone, I long to serve them, to obey them, to let myself be ill-treated, to suffer and to bear it.

LADY. You shouldn't love me, but your Creator.

STRANGER. He's unfriendly—like my father!

LADY. He is Love itself; and you are Hate.

STRANGER. You're his daughter; but I'm his cast-out son.

LADY (coaxingly). Quiet! Be still!

STRANGER. If you only knew what I've suffered this last week. I don't know where I am.

LADY. Where do you think?

STRANGER. There's a woman in that but who looks at me as if I'd come to rob her of her last mite. She says nothing—that's the trouble. But I think it's prayers she mutters, when she sees me.

LADY. What sort of prayers?

STRANGER. The sort one whispers behind the backs of those who have the evil eye or bring misfortune.

LADY. How strange! Don't you realise that one's sight can be blinded?

STRANGER. Yes, of course. But who can do it?

HOSTESS (coming across to their table). Well, look at that! I suppose she's your sister?

STRANGER. Yes. We can say so now.

HOSTESS (to the LADY). Fancy meeting someone I can speak to at last! This gentleman's so silent, you see, that one feels at once one must respect him; particularly as he seems to have had trouble. But I can say this to his sister, and he shall hear it: that from the moment he entered the house I felt that I was blessed. I'd been dogged by misfortune; I'd no lodger, my only cow had died, my husband was in a home for drunkards and my children had nothing to eat. I prayed God to send me help from heaven, because I expected nothing more on earth. Then this gentleman came. And apart from giving me double what I asked, he brought me good luck—and my house was blessed. God bless you, good sir!

STRANGER (getting up excitedly). Silence, woman. That's blasphemy!

LADY. He won't believe. O God! He won't believe. Look at me!

STRANGER. When I look at you, I do believe. She's giving me her blessing! And I, who'm damned, have brought a blessing on her! How can I believe it? I, of all men! (He falls down by the table and weeps in his hands.)

LADY. He's weeping! Tears, rain from heaven, that can soften rocks, are falling on his stony heart.... He's weeping!

HOSTESS. He? Who has a heart of gold! Who's been so open handed and so good to my children!

LADY. You hear what she says!

HOSTESS. There's only one thing about him I don't understand; but I don't want to say anything unpleasant....

LADY. What is it?

HOSTESS. Only a trifle; and yet...

LADY. Well?

HOSTESS. He didn't like my dogs.

LADY. I can't blame him for not caring for an impure beast. I hate everything animal, in myself and others. I don't hate animals on that account, for I hate nothing that's created....

STRANGER. Thank you, Ingeborg!

LADY. You see! I've an eye for your merits, even though you don't believe it.... Here comes the Confessor.

(The CONFESSOR enters.)

HOSTESS. Then I'll go; for the Confessor has no love for me.

LADY. The Confessor loves all mankind.

CONFESSOR (coming forward and speaking to the LADY). You best of all, my child; for you're goodness itself. Whether you're beautiful to look at, I can't see; but I know you must be, because you're good. Yes, you were the bride of my youth, and my spiritual mate; and you'll always be so, for you gave me what you were never able to give to others. I've lived your life in my spirit, suffered your pains, enjoyed your pleasures—pleasure rather, for you'd no others than what your child gave you. I alone have seen the beauty of your soul—my friend here has divined it; that's why he felt attracted to you—but the evil in him was too strong; you had to draw it out of him into yourself to free him. Then, being evil, you had to suffer the worst pains of hell for his sake, to bring atonement. Your work's ended. You can go in peace!