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You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Road to Damascus + +Author: August Strindberg + +Release Date: September, 2005 [EBook #8875] +[Most recently updated September 25, 2005] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ROAD TO DAMASCUS *** + + + + +Produced by Nicole Apostola + + + + +AUGUST STRINDBERG + +THE ROAD TO DAMASCUS + +A TRILOGY + +ENGLISH VERSION BY GRAHAM RAWSON + +WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY GUNNAR OLLEN + +CONTENTS + +INTRODUCTION +PART ONE +PART TWO +PART THREE + + + +INTRODUCTION + +Strindberg's great trilogy _The Road to Damascus_ presents many +mysteries to the uninitiated. Its peculiar changes of mood, its +gallery of half unreal characters, its bizarre episodes combine to +make it a bewilderingly rich but rather 'difficult' work. It cannot +be recommended to the lover of light drama or the seeker of +momentary distraction. _The Road to Damascus_ does not deal with +the superficial strata of human life, but probes into those depths +where the problems of God, and death, and eternity become +terrifying realities. + +Many authors have, of course, dealt with the profoundest problems +of humanity without, on that account, having been able to evoke our +interest. There may have been too much philosophy and too little +art in the presentation of the subject, too little reality and too +much soaring into the heights. That is not so with Strindberg's +drama. It is a trenchant settling of accounts between a complex and +fascinating individual--the author--and his past, and the realistic +scenes have often been transplanted in detail from his own +changeful life. + +In order fully to understand _The Road to Damascus_ it is therefore +essential to know at least the most important features of that +background of real life, out of which the drama has grown. + +Parts I and II of the trilogy were written in 1898, while Part III +was added somewhat later, in the years 1900-1901. In 1898 +Strindberg had only half emerged from what was by far the severest +of the many crises through which in his troubled life he had to +pass. He had overcome the worst period of terror, which had brought +him dangerously near the borders of sanity, and he felt as if he +could again open his eyes and breathe freely. He was not free from +that nervous pressure under which he had been working, but the +worst of the inner tension had relaxed and he felt the need of +taking a survey of what had happened, of summarising and trying to +fathom what could have been underlying his apparently unaccountable +experiences. The literary outcome of this settling of accounts with +the past was _The Road to Damascus_. + +_The Road to Damascus_ might be termed a marriage drama, a mystery +drama, or a drama of penance and conversion, according as +preponderance is given to one or other of its characteristics. The +question then arises: what was it in the drama which was of deepest +significance to the author himself? The answer is to be found in +the title, with its allusion to the narrative in the Acts of the +Apostles of the journey of Saul, the persecutor, the scoffer, who, +on his way to Damascus, had an awe-inspiring vision, which +converted Saul, the hater of Christ, into Paul, the apostle of the +Gentiles. Strindberg's drama describes the progress of the author +right up to his conversion, shows how stage by stage he +relinquishes worldly things, scientific renown, and above all +woman, and finally, when nothing more binds him to this world, +takes the vows of a monk and enters a monastery where no dogmas or +theology, but only broadminded humanity and resignation hold sway. +What, however, in an inner sense, distinguishes Strindberg's drama +from the Bible narrative is that the conversion itself--although +what leads up to it is convincingly described, both logically and +psychologically--does not bear the character of a final and +irrevocable decision, but on the contrary is depicted with a +certain hesitancy and uncertainty. THE STRANGER'S entry into the +monastery consequently gives the impression of being a piece of +logical construction; the author's heart is not wholly in it. From +Strindberg's later works it also becomes evident that his severe +crisis had undoubtedly led to a complete reformation in that it +definitely caused him to turn from worldly things, of which indeed +he had tasted to the full, towards matters divine. But this did not +mean that then and there he accepted some specific religion, +whether Christian or other. One would undoubtedly come nearest to +the author's own interpretation in this respect by characterising +_The Road to Damascus_ not as a drama of conversion, but as a drama +of struggle, the story of a restless, arduous pilgrimage through +the chimeras of the world towards the border beyond which eternity +stretches in solemn peace, symbolised in the drama by a mountain, +the peaks of which reach high above the clouds. + +In this final settling of accounts one subject is of dominating +importance, recurring again and again throughout the trilogy; it is +that of woman. Strindberg him, of course, become famous as a writer +about women; he has ruthlessly described the hatreds of love, the +hell that marriage can be, he is the creator of _Le Plaidoyer d'un +Fou_ and _The Dance of Death_, he had three divorces, yet was just +as much a worshipper of woman--and at the same time a diabolical +hater of her seducing qualities under which he suffered defeat +after defeat. Each time he fell in love afresh he would compare +himself to Hercules, the Titan, whose strength was vanquished by +Queen Omphale, who clothed herself in his lion's skin, while he had +to sit at the spinning wheel dressed in women's clothes. It can be +readily understood that to a man of Strindberg's self-conceit the +problem of his relations with women must become a vital issue on +the solution of which the whole Damascus pilgrimage depended. + +In 1898, when Parts I and II of the trilogy were written, +Strindberg had been married twice; both marriages had ended +unhappily. In the year 1901, when the wedding scenes of Part III +were written, Strindberg had recently experienced the rapture of a +new love which, however, was soon to be clouded. It must not be +forgotten that in his entire emotional life Strindberg was an +artist and as such a man of impulse, with the spontaneity and +naivity and intensity of a child. For him love had nothing to do +with respectability and worldly calculations; he liked to think of +it as a thunderbolt striking mortals with a destructive force like +the lightning hurled by the almighty Zeus. It is easy to understand +that a man of such temperament would not be particularly suited for +married life, where self-sacrifice and strong-minded patience may +be severely tested. In addition his three wives were themselves +artists, one an authoress, the other two actresses, all of them +pronounced characters, endowed with a degree of will and +self-assertion, which, although it could not be matched against +Strindberg's, yet would have been capable of producing friction +with rather more pliant natures than that of the Swedish dramatist. + +In the trilogy Strindberg's first wife, Siri von Essen, his +marriage to whom was happiest and lasted longest (1877-1891), and +more especially his second wife, the Austrian authoress Frida Uhl +(married to him 1893-1897) have supplied the subject matter for his +picture of THE LADY. In the happy marriage scenes of Part III we +recognise reminiscences from the wedding of Strindberg, then +fifty-two, and the twenty-three-year-old actress Harriet Bosse, +whose marriage to him lasted from 1901 until 1904. + +The character of THE LADY in Parts I and II is chiefly drawn from +recollections--fairly recent when the drama was written--of Frida +Uhl and his life with her. From the very beginning her marriage to +Strindberg had been most troublous. In the autumn of 1892 +Strindberg moved from the Stockholm skerries to Berlin, where he +lived a rather hectic Bohemian life among the artists collecting in +the little tavern 'Zum Schwarzen Ferkel.' He made the acquaintance +of Frida Uhl in the beginning of the year 1893, and after a good +many difficulties was able to arrange for a marriage on the 2nd May +on Heligoland Island, where English marriage laws, less rigorous +than the German, applied. Strindberg's nervous temperament would +not tolerate a quiet and peaceful honeymoon; quite soon the couple +departed to Gravesend via Hamburg. Strindberg was too restless to +stay there and moved on to London. There he left his wife to try to +negotiate for the production of his plays, and journeyed alone to +Sellin, on the island of Ruegen, after having first been compelled +to stop in Hamburg owing to lack of money. Strindberg stayed on +Ruegen during the month of July, and then left for the home of his +parents-in-law at Mondsee, near Salzburg in Austria, where he was +to meet his wife. But when she was delayed a few days on the +journey from London, Strindberg impatiently departed for Berlin, +where Frida Uhl followed shortly after. About the same time an +action was brought for the suppression of the German version of _Le +Plaidoyer d'un Fou_ as being immoral. This book gives an +undisguised, intensely personal picture of Strindberg's first +marriage, and was intended by him for publication only after his +death as a defence against accusations directed against him for +his behaviour towards Siri von Essen. Strindberg was acquitted +after a time, but before that his easily fired imagination had +given him a thorough shake-up, which could only hasten the crisis +which seemed to be approaching. After a trip to Bruenn, where +Strindberg wrote his scientific work _Antibarbarus_, the couple +arrived in November at the home of Frida Uhl's grandparents in the +little village of Dornach, by the Upper Danube; here the wanderings +of 1893 at last came to an end. For a few months comparative peace +reigned in the artists' little home, but the birth of a daughter, +Kerstin, in May, brought this tranquillity to a sudden end. +Strindberg, who had lived in a state of nervous depression since +the 1880's, felt himself put on one side by the child, and felt ill +at ease in an environment of, as he put it in the autobiographical +_The Quarantine Master_, 'articles of food, excrements, wet-nurses +treated like milch-cows, cooks and decaying vegetables.' He longed +for cleanliness and peace, and in letters to an artist friend he +spoke of entering a monastery. He even thought of founding one +himself in the Ardennes and drew up detailed schemes for rules, +dress, and food. The longing to get away and common interests with +his Parisian friend (a musician named Leopold Littmansson) +attracted Strindberg to Paris, where he settled down in the +beginning of the autumn 1894. His wife joined him, but left again +at the close of the autumn. In reality Strindberg was at this time +almost impossible to live with. Persecution mania and hallucinations +took possession of him and his morbid suspicions knew no bounds. In +spite of this he was half conscious that there was something wrong +with his mental faculties, and in the beginning of 1895, assisted +by the Swedish Minister, he went by his own consent to the St. +Louis Hospital in Paris. During his chemical experiments, in which +among other things he tried to produce gold, he had burnt his hands, +so that he had to seek medical attention on that account also. He +wrote about this in a letter: + +'I am going to hospital because I am ill, because my doctor has +sent me there, and because I need to be looked after like a child, +because I am ruined. ... And it torments me and grieves me, my +nervous system is rotten, paralytic, hysterical. ...' + +Never before had Strindberg lived in such distress as at this +period, both physically and mentally. With shattered nerves, +sometimes over the verge of insanity, without any means of +existence other than what friends managed to scrape together, +separated from his second wife, who had opened proceedings for +divorce, far from his native land and without any prospects for the +future, he was brought to a profound religious crisis. With almost +incredible fortitude he succeeded in fighting his way through this +difficult period, with the remarkable result that the former Bohemian, +atheist, and scoffer was gradually able to emerge with the firm +assurance of a prophet, and even enter a new creative period, perhaps +mightier than before. One cannot help reflecting that a man capable of +overcoming a crisis of such a formidable character and of several years' +duration, as this one of Strindberg's had been, with reason intact and +even with increased creative power, in reality, in spite of his +hypersensitive nervous system, must have been an unusually strong man +both physically and mentally. + +Upon trying to define more closely what actual relation the play +has to those events of Strindberg's restless life, of which we have +given a rough outline, we find that for the most part the author +has undoubtedly made use of his own experiences, but has adapted, +combined and added to them still more, so that the result is a +mixture of real experience and imagination, all moulded into a +carefully worked out artistic form. + +If to begin with, we dwell for a while on Part I it is evident that +the hurried wanderings of THE STRANGER and THE LADY between the +street corner, the room in the hotel, the sea and the Rose Room +with the mother-in-law, have their foundation--often in detail--in +Strindberg's rovings with Frida Uhl. I will give a few examples. In +a book by Frida Uhl about her marriage to the Swedish genius +(splendid in parts but not very reliable) she recalls that the +month before her marriage she took rooms at Neustaedtische +Kirchstrasse 1, in Berlin, facing a Gothic church in Dorotheenstrasse, +situated at the cross-roads between the post office in Dorotheenstrasse +and the cafe 'Zum Schwarzen Ferkel' in Wilhelmstrasse. This Berlin +environment appears to be almost exactly reproduced in the +introductory scene of Part I, where THE STRANGER and THE LADY meet +outside a little Gothic church with a post office and cafe adjoining. +The happy scenes by the sea are, of course, pleasant recollections +from Heligoland, and the many discussions about money matters in +the midst of the honeymoon are quite explicable when we know how +the dramatist was continually haunted by money troubles, even if +occasionally he received a big fee, and that this very financial +insecurity was one of the chief reasons why Frida Uhl's father +opposed the marriage. Again, the country scenes which follow in +Part I, shift to the hilly country round the Danube, with their +Catholic Calvaries and expiation chapels, where Strindberg lived +with his parents-in-law in Mondsee and with his wife's grandparents +in Dornach and the neighbouring village Klam, with its mill, its +smithy, and its gloomy ravine. The Rose Room was the name he gave +to the room in which he lived during his stay with his mother-in-law +and his daughter Kerstin in Klam in the autumn of 1896, as he has +himself related in one of his autobiographical books _Inferno_. +In this way we could go on, showing how the localities which are +to be met with in the drama often correspond in detail to the +places Strindberg had visited in the course of his pilgrimage +during the years 1893-1898. Space prevents us, however, from +entering on a more detailed analysis in this respect. + +That THE STRANGER represents Strindberg's _alter ego_ is evident in +many ways, even apart from the fact that THE STRANGER'S wanderings +from place to place, as we have already seen, bear a direct +relation to those of Strindberg himself. THE STRANGER is an author, +like Strindberg; his childhood of hate is Strindberg's own; other +details--such as for instance that THE STRANGER has refused to +attend his father's funeral, that the Parish Council has wanted to +take his child away from him, that on account of his writings he +has suffered lawsuits, illness, poverty, exile, divorce; that in +the police description he is characterised as a person without a +permanent situation, with uncertain income; married, but had +deserted his wife and left his children; known as entertaining +subversive opinions on social questions (by _The Red Room_, _The +New Realm_ and other works Strindberg became the great standard-bearer +of the Swedish Radicals in their campaign against conventionalism +and bureaucracy); that he gives the impression of not being in full +possession of his senses; that he is sought by his children's +guardian because of unpaid maintenance allowance--everything +corresponds to the experiences of the unfortunate Strindberg +himself, with all his bitter defeats in life and his triumphs in +the world of letters. + +Those scenes where THE STRANGER is uncertain whether the people he +sees before him are real or not--he catches hold of THE BEGGAR'S +arm to feel whether he is a real, live person--or those occasions +when he appears as a visionary or thought-reader--he describes the +kitchen in his wife's parental home without ever having seen it, +and knows her thoughts before she has expressed them--have their +deep foundation in Strindberg's mental make-up, especially as it +was during the period of tension in the middle of the 1890's, +termed the Inferno period, because at that time Strindberg thought +that he lived in hell. Our most prominent student of Strindberg, +Professor Martin Lamm, wrote about this in his work on Strindberg's +dramas: + +'In order to understand the first part of _The Road to Damascus_ we +must take into consideration that the author had not yet shaken off +his terrifying visions and persecutionary hallucinations. He can +play with them artistically, sometimes he feels tempted to make a +joke of them, but they still retain for him their "terrifying +semi-reality." It is this which makes the drama so bewildering, +but at the same time so vigorous and affecting. Later, when +depicting dream states, he creates an artful blend of reality and +poetry. He produces more exquisite works of art, but he no longer +gives the same anguished impression of a soul striving to free +itself from the meshes of his _idees fixes_.' + +With his hypersensitive nervous system Strindberg, like THE +STRANGER, really gives the impression of having been a visionary. +For instance, his author friend Albert Engstroem, has told how one +evening during a stay far out in the Stockholm skerries, far from +all civilisation, Strindberg suddenly had a feeling that his little +daughter was ill, and wanted to return to town at once. True +enough, it turned out that the girl had fallen ill just at the time +when Strindberg had felt the warning. As regards thought-reading, +it appears that at the slightest change in expression and often for +no perceptible reason at all, Strindberg would draw the most +definite conclusions, as definite as from an uttered word or an +action. This we have to keep in mind, for instance, when judging +Strindberg's accusations against his wife in _Le Plaidoyer d'un +Fou_, the book which THE LADY in _The Road to Damascus_ is tempted +to read, in spite of having been forbidden by THE STRANGER, with +tragic results. In Part III of the drama Strindberg lets THE +STRANGER discuss this thought-reading problem with his first wife. +THE STRANGER says: + +'We made a mistake when we were living together, because we accused +each other of wicked thoughts before they'd become actions; and +lived in mental reservations instead of realities. For instance, I +once noticed how you enjoyed the defiling gaze of a strange man, +and I accused you of unfaithfulness'; + +to which THE LADY, to Strindberg's satisfaction, has to reply: + +'You were wrong to do it, and right. Because my thoughts were +sinful.' + +As regards the other figures in the gallery of characters in Part +I, we have already shown THE LADY as the identical counterpart in +all essentials of Strindberg's second wife, Frida Uhl. Like the +latter THE LADY is a Catholic, has a grandfather, Dr. Cornelius +Reisch--called THE OLD MAN in the drama--whose passion is shooting; +and a mother, Maria Uhl, with a predilection for religious +discourses in Strindberg's own style; another detail, the fact that +she was eighteen years old before she crossed to the other shore to +see what had shimmered dimly in the distant haze, corresponds with +Frida Uhl's statement that she had been confined in a convent until +she was eighteen and a half years old. On the other hand, the chief +female character of the drama does not correspond to her real life +counterpart in that she is supposed to have been married to a +doctor before eloping with THE STRANGER, Strindberg. Here +reminiscences from Strindberg's first marriage play a part. Siri +von Essen, Strindberg's first wife, was married to an officer, +Baron Wrangel, and both the Wrangels received Strindberg kindly in +their home as a friend. Love quickly flared up between Siri von +Essen-Wrangel and Strlndberg. She obtained a divorce from her +husband and married Strindberg. Baron von Wrangel shortly +afterwards married again, a cousin of Siri von Essen. Knowing these +matrimonial complications we understand how Strindberg must have +felt when, on the point of leaving for Heligoland to marry Frida +Uhl, he met his former wife's (Siri von Essen) first husband, Baron +Wrangel, on Lehrter Station in Berlin, and found that, like +Strindberg himself, he was on a lover's errand. Knowing all this we +need not be surprised at the extremely complicated matrimonial +relations in _The Road to Damascus_, where, for example, for the +sake of THE STRANGER, THE DOCTOR obtains a divorce from THE LADY in +order to marry THE STRANGER'S first wife. In addition to Baron +Wrangel a doctor in the town of Ystad, in the south of Sweden--Dr. +Eliasson who attended Strindberg during his most difficult period-- +has stood as a model for THE DOCTOR. We note in particular that the +description of the doctor's house enclosing a courtyard on three +sides, tallies with a type of building which is characteristic of +the south of Sweden. When THE DOCTOR ruthlessly explains to THE +STRANGER that the asylum, 'The Good Help,' was not a hospital but a +lunatic asylum, he expresses Strindberg's own misgivings that the +St. Louis Hospital, of which, as mentioned above, Strindberg was +an inmate in the beginning of the year 1895, was really to be +regarded as a lunatic asylum. + +Even minor characters, such as CAESAR and THE BEGGAR have their +counterparts in real life, even though in the main they are +fantastic creations of his imagination. The guardian of his +daughter, Kerstin, a relative of Frida Uhl's, was called Dr. Caesar +R. v. Weyr. Regarding THE BEGGAR it may be enough to quote +Strindberg's feelings when confronted with the collections made by +his Paris friends: + +'I am a beggar who has no right to go to cafes. Beggar! That is the +right word; it rings in my ears and brings a burning blush to my +cheeks, the blush of shame, humiliation, and rage! + +'To think that six weeks ago I sat at this table! My theatre +manager addressed me as Dear Master; journalists strove to +interview me, the photographer begged to be allowed to sell my +portrait. And now: a beggar, a branded man, an outcast from +society!' + +After this we can understand why Strindberg in _The Road to +Damascus_ apparently in such surprising manner is seized by the +suspicion that he is himself the beggar. + +We have thus seen that Part I of _The Road to Damascus_ is at the +same time a free creation of fantasy and a drama of portrayal. The +elements of realism are starkly manifest, but they are moulded and +hammered into a work of art by a force of combinative imagination +rising far above the task of mere descriptive realism. The scenes +unroll themselves in calculated sequence up to the central asylum +picture, from there to return in reverse order through the second +half of the drama, thus symbolising life's continuous repetition of +itself, Kierkegaard's _Gentagelse_. The first part of _The Road to +Damascus_ is the one most frequently produced on the stage. This is +understandable, having regard to its firm structure and the +consistency of its faith in a Providence directing the fortunes and +misfortunes of man, whether the individual rages in revolt or +submits in quiet resignation. + +The second part of _The Road to Damascus_ is dominated by the +scenes of the great alchemist banquet which, in all its fantastic +oddity, is one of the most suggestive ever created on the ancient +theme of the fickleness of fortune. It was suggested above that +there were two factors beyond all others binding Strindberg to the +world and making him hesitate before the monastery; one was woman, +from whom he sets himself free in Part II, after the birth of a +child--precisely as in his marriage to Frida Uhl--the other was +scientific honour, in its highest phase equivalent, to Strindberg, +to the power to produce gold. Countless were the experiments for +this purpose made by Strindberg in his primitive laboratories, and +countless his failures. To the world-famous author, literary honour +meant little as opposed to the slightest prospect of being +acknowledged as a prominent scientist. Harriet Bosse has told me +that Strindberg seldom said anything about his literary work, never +was interested in what other people thought of them, or troubled to +read the reviews; but on the other hand he would often, with +sparkling eyes and childish pride, show her strips of paper, +stained at one end with some golden-brown substance. 'Look,' he +said, 'this is pure gold, and I have made it!' In face of the +stubborn scepticism of scientific experts Strindberg was, however, +driven to despair as to his ability, and felt his dreams of fortune +shattered, as did THE STRANGER at the macabre banquet given in his +honour--a banquet which was, as a matter of fact, planned by his +Paris friends, not, as Strindberg would have liked to believe, in +honour of the great scientist, but to the great author. + +In Part I of _The Road to Damascus_, THE STRANGER replies with a +hesitating 'Perhaps' when THE LADY wants to lead him to the +protecting Church; and at the end of Part II he exclaims: 'Come, +priest, before I change my mind'; but in Part III his decision is +final, he enters the monastery. The reason is that not even THE +LADY in her third incarnation had shown herself capable of +reconciling him to life. The wedding day scenes just before, +between Harriet Bosse and the ageing author, form, however, the +climax of Part III and are among the most poetically moving that +Strindberg has ever written. + +Besides having his belief in the rapture of love shattered, THE +STRANGER also suffers disappointment at seeing his child fall short +of expectations. The meeting between the daughter Sylvia and THE +STRANGER probably refers to an episode from the summer of 1899, +when Strindberg, after long years of suffering in foreign +countries, saw his beloved Swedish skerries again, and also his +favourite daughter Greta, who had come over from Finland to meet +him. Contrary to the version given in the drama, the reunion of +father and daughter seems to have been very happy and cordial. +However, it is typical of the fate-oppressed Strindberg that in his +work even the happiest summer memories become tinged with black. +Once and for all the dark colours on his palette were the most +intense. + +The final entry into the monastery was more a symbol for the +struggling author's dream of peace and atonement than a real thing +in his life. It is true he visited the Benedictine monastery, +Maredsous, in Belgium in 1898, and its well stocked library came to +play a certain part In the drama, but already he realised, after +one night's sojourn there, that he had no call for the monastic +life. + +Seen as a whole the trilogy marks a turning point in Strindberg's +dramatic production. The logical, calculated concentration of his +naturalistic work of the 1880's has given way to a freer form of +composition, in which the atmosphere has come to mean more than the +dialogue, the musical and dreamlike qualities more than +conciseness. _The Road to Damascus_ abounds with details from real +life, reproduced in sharply naturalistic manner, but these are not, +as things were in his earlier works viewed by the author _a priori_ +as reality but become wrapped in dreamlike mystery. Just as with +_Lady Julia_ and _The Father_ Strindberg ushered in the naturalistic +drama of the 1880's, so in the years around the turn of the century +he was, with his symbolist cycle _The Road to Damascus_, to break +new ground for European drama which had gradually become stuck in +fixed formulas. _The Road to Damascus_ became a landmark in world +literature both as a brilliant work of art and as bearer of new +stage technique. + +GUNNAR OLLEN + +Translated by +ESTHER JOHANSON + + + + + + + +PART ONE + + +CHARACTERS + +THE STRANGER +THE LADY +THE BEGGAR +THE DOCTOR +HIS SISTER +AN OLD MAN +A MOTHER +AN ABBESS +A CONFESSOR + +less important figures +FIRST MOURNER +SECOND MOURNER +THIRD MOURNER +LANDLORD +CAESAR +WAITER + +non-speaking +A SMITH +MILLER'S WIFE +FUNERAL ATTENDANTS + + +SCENES + +SCENE I Street Corner SCENE XVII +SCENE II Doctor's House SCENE XVI +SCENE III Room in an Hotel SCENE XV +SCENE IV By the Sea SCENE XIV +SCENE V On the Road SCENE XIII +SCENE VI In a Ravine SCENE XII +SCENE VII In a Kitchen SCENE XI +SCENE VIII The 'Rose' Room SCENE X +SCENE IX Convent + + +AUGUST STRINDBERG + +THE ROAD TO DAMASCUS +PART ONE + +English Version by +GRAHAM RAWSON + +First Performance in England by the Stage Society at the +Westminster Theatre, 2nd May 1937 + +CAST + +THE STRANGER Francis James +THE LADY Wanda Rotha +THE BEGGAR Alexander Sarner +FIRST MOURNER George Cormack +SECOND MOURNER Kenneth Bell +THIRD MOURNER Peter Bennett +FOURTH MOURNER Bryan Sears +FIFTH MOURNER Michael Boyle +SIXTH MOURNER Stephen Patrick +THE LANDLORD Stephen Jack +THE DOCTOR Neil Porter +HIS SISTER Olga Martin +CAESAR Peter Land +A WAITER Peter Bennett +AN OLD MAN A. Corney Grain +A MOTHER Frances Waring +THE SMITH Norman Thomas +THE MILLER'S WIFE Julia Sandham +AN ABBESS Natalia Moya +A CONFESSOR Tristan Rawson + +PRODUCER Carl H. Jaffe +ASSISTANT PRODUCER Ossia Trilling + + +SCENE I + +STREET CORNER + +[Street Corner with a seat under a tree; the side-door of a small +Gothic Church nearby; also a post office and a cafe with chairs +outside it. Both post office and cafe are shut. A funeral march is +heard off, growing louder sand then fainter. A STRANGER is standing +on the edge of the pavement and seems uncertain which way to go. A +church clock strikes: first the four quarters and then the hour. It +is three o'clock. A LADY enters and greets the STRANGER. She is +about to pass him, but stops.] + +STRANGER. It's you! I almost knew you'd come. + +LADY. You wanted me: I felt it. But why are you waiting here? + +STRANGER. I don't know. I must wait somewhere. + +LADY. Who are you waiting for? + +STRANGER. I wish I could tell you! For forty years I've been +waiting for something: I believe they call it happiness; or the end +of unhappiness. (Pause.) There's that terrible music again. Listen! +But don't go, I beg you. I'll feel afraid, if you do. + +LADY. We met yesterday for the first time; and talked for four +hours. You roused my sympathy, but you mustn't abuse my kindness on +that account. + +STRANGER. I know that well enough. But I beg you not to leave me. +I'm a stranger here, without friends; and my few acquaintances seem +more like enemies. + +LADY. You have enemies everywhere. You're lonely everywhere. Why +did you leave your wife and children? + +STRANGER. I wish I knew. I wish I knew why I still live; why I'm +here now; where I should go and what I should do! Do you believe +that the living can be damned already? + +LADY. No. + +STRANGER. Look at me. + +LADY. Hasn't life brought you a single pleasure? + +STRANGER. Not one! If at any time I thought so, it was merely a +trap to tempt me to prolong my miseries. If ripe fruit fell into my +hand, it was poisoned or rotten at the core. + +LADY. What is your religion--if you'll forgive the question? + +STRANGER. Only this: that when I can bear things no longer, I shall +go. + +LADY. Where? + +STRANGER. Into annihilation. If I don't hold life in my hand, at +least I hold death. ... It gives me an amazing feeling of power. + +LADY. You're playing with death! + +STRANGER. As I've played with life. (Pause.) I was a writer. But in +spite of my melancholy temperament I've never been able to take +anything seriously--not even my worst troubles. Sometimes I even +doubt whether life itself has had any more reality than my books. +(A De Profundis is heard from the funeral procession.) They're +coming back. Why must they process up and down these streets? + +LADY. Do you fear them? + +STRANGER. They annoy me. The place might be bewitched. No, it's not +death I fear, but solitude; for then one's not alone. I don't know +who's there, I or another, but in solitude one's not alone. The air +grows heavy and seems to engender invisible beings, who have life +and whose presence can be felt. + +LADY. You've noticed that? + +STRANGER. For some time I've noticed a great deal; but not as I +used to. Once I merely saw objects and events, forms and colours, +whilst now I perceive ideas and meanings. Life, that once had no +meaning, has begun to have one. Now I discern intention where I +used to see nothing but chance. (Pause.) When I met you yesterday +it struck me you'd been sent across my path, either to save me, or +destroy me. + +LADY. Why should I destroy you? + +STRANGER. Because it may be your destiny. + +LADY. No such idea ever crossed my mind; it was largely sympathy I +felt for you. ... Never, in all my life, have I met anyone like +you. I have only to look at you for the tears to start to my eyes. +Tell me, what have you on your conscience? Have you done something +wrong, that's never been discovered or punished? + +STRANGER. You may well ask! No, I've no more sins on my conscience +than other free men. Except this: I determined that life should +never make a fool of me. + +LADY. You must let yourself be fooled, more or less, to live at +all. + +STRANGER. That would seem a kind of duty; but one I wanted to get +out of. (Pause.) I've another secret. It's whispered in the family +that I'm a changeling. + +LADY. What's that? + +STRANGER. A child substituted by the elves for the baby that was +born. + +LADY. Do you believe in such things? + +STRANGER. No. But, as a parable, there's something to be said for +it. (Pause.) As a child I was always crying and didn't seem to take +to life in this world. I hated my parents, as they hated me. I +brooked no constraint, no conventions, no laws, and my longing was +for the woods and the sea. + +LADY. Did you ever see visions? + +STRANGER. Never. But I've often thought that two beings were +guiding my destiny. One offers me all I desire; but the other's +ever at hand to bespatter the gifts with filth, so that they're +useless to me and I can't touch them. It's true that life has given +me all I asked of it--but everything's turned out worthless to me. + +LADY. You've had everything and yet are not content? + +STRANGER. That is the curse. ... + +LADY. Don't say that! But why haven't you desired things that +transcend this life, that can never be sullied? + +STRANGER. Because I doubt if there is a beyond. + +LADY. But the elves? + +STRANGER. Are merely a fairy story. (Pointing to a seat.) Shall we +sit down? + +LADY. Yes. Who are you waiting for? + +STRANGER. Really, for the post office to open. There's a letter for +me--it's been forwarded on but hasn't reached me. (They sit down.) +But tell me something of yourself now. (The Lady takes up her +crochet work.) + +LADY. There's nothing to tell. + +STRANGER. Strangely enough, I should prefer to think of you like +that. Impersonal, nameless--I only do know one of your names. I'd +like to christen you myself--let me see, what ought you to be +called? I've got it. Eve! (With a gesture towards the wings.) +Trumpets! (The funeral march is heard again.) There it is again! +Now I must invent your age, for I don't know how old you are. From +now on you are thirty-four--so you were born in sixty-four. +(Pause.) Now your character, for I don't know that either. I shall +give you a good character, your voice reminds me of my mother--I +mean the idea of a mother, for my mother never caressed me, though +I can remember her striking me. You see, I was brought up in hate! +An eye for an eye--a tooth for a tooth. You see this scar on my +forehead? That comes from a blow my brother gave me with an axe, +after I'd struck him with a stone. I never went to my father's +funeral, because he turned me out of the house when my sister +married. I was born out of wedlock, when my family were bankrupt +and in mourning for an uncle who had taken his life. Now you know +my family! That's the stock I come from. Once I narrowly escaped +fourteen years' hard labour--so I've every reason to thank the +elves, though I can't be altogether pleased with what they've done. + +LADY. I like to hear you talk. But don't speak of the elves: it +makes me sad. + +STRANGER. Frankly, I don't believe in them; yet they're always +making themselves felt. Are these elves the souls of the unhappy, +who still await redemption? If so, I am the child of an evil +spirit. Once I believed I was near redemption--through a woman. +But no mistake could have been greater: I was plunged into the +seventh hell. + +LADY. You must be unhappy. But this won't go on always. + +STRANGER. Do you think church bells and Holy Water could comfort +me? I've tried them; they only made things worse. I felt like the +Devil when he sees the sign of the cross. (Pause.) Let's talk about +you now. + +LADY. There's no need. (Pause.) Have you been blamed for misusing +your gifts? + +STRANGER. I've been blamed for everything. In the town I lived in +no one was so hated as I. Lonely I came in and lonely I went out. +If I entered a public place people avoided me. If I wanted to rent +a room, it would be let. The priests laid a ban on me from the +pulpit, teachers from their desks and parents in their homes. The +church committee wanted to take my children from me. Then I +blasphemously shook my fist ... at heaven! + +LADY. Why did they hate you so? + +STRANGER. How should I know! Yet I do! I couldn't endure to see men +suffer. So I kept on saying, and writing, too: free yourselves, I +will help you. And to the poor I said: do not let the rich exploit +you. And to the women: do not allow yourselves to be enslaved by +the men. And--worst of all--to the children: do not obey your +parents, if they are unjust. What followed was impossible to +foresee. I found that everyone was against me: rich and poor, men +and women, parents and children. And then came sickness and +poverty, beggary and shame, divorce, law-suits, exile, solitude, +and now. ... Tell me, do you think me mad? + +LADY. No. + +STRANGER. You must be the only one. But I'm all the more grateful. + +LADY (rising). I must leave you now. + +STRANGER. You, too? + +LADY. And you mustn't stay here. + +STRANGER. Where should I go? + +LADY. Home. To your work. + +STRANGER. But I'm no worker. I'm a writer. + +LADY. I know. But I didn't want to hurt you. Creative power is +something given you, that can also taken away. See you don't +forfeit yours. + +STRANGER. Where are you going? + +LADY. Only to a shop. + +STRANGER (after a pause). Tell me, are you a believer? + +LADY. I am nothing. + +STRANGER. All the better: you have a future. How I wish I were your +old blind father, whom you could lead to the market place to sing +for his bread. My tragedy is I cannot grow old that's what happens +to children of the elves, they have big heads and never only cry. I +wish I were someone's dog. I could follow him and never be alone +again. I'd get a meal sometimes, a kick now and then, a pat +perhaps, a blow often. ... + +LADY. Now I must go. Good-bye. (She goes out.) + +STRANGER (absent-mindedly). Good-bye. (He remains on the seat. He +takes off his hat and wipes his forehead. Then he draws on the +ground with his stick. A BEGGAR enters. He has a strange look and +is collecting objects from the gutter.) White are you picking up, +beggar? + +BEGGAR. Why call me that? I'm no beggar. Have I asked you for +anything? + +STRANGER. I beg your pardon. It's so hard to judge men from +appearances. + +BEGGAR. That's true. For instance, can you guess who I am? + +STRANGER. I don't intend to try. It doesn't interest me. + +BEGGAR. No one can know that in advance. Interest commonly comes +afterwards--when it's too late. Virtus post nummos! + +STRANGER. What? Do beggars know Latin? + +BEGGAR. You see, you're interested already. Omne tulit punctum qui +miscuit utile dulci. I have always succeeded in everything I've +undertaken, because I've never attempted anything. I should like to +call myself Polycrates, who found the gold ring in the fish's +stomach. Life has given me all I asked of it. But I never asked +anything; I grew tired of success and threw the ring away. Yet, now +I've grown old I regret it. I search for it in the gutters; but as +the search takes time, in default of my gold ring I don't disdain a +few cigar stumps. ... + +STRANGER. I don't know whether this beggar's cynical or mad. + +BEGGAR. I don't know either. + +STRANGER. Do you know who I am? + +BEGGAR. No. And it doesn't interest me. + +STRANGER. Well, interest commonly comes afterwards. ... You see you +tempt me to take the words out of your mouth. And that's the same +thing as picking up other people's cigars. + +BEGGAR. So you won't follow my example? + +STRANGER. What's that scar on your forehead? + +BEGGAR. I got it from a near relation. + +STRANGER. Now you frighten me! Are you real? May I touch you? (He +touches his arm.) There's no doubt of it. ... Would you deign to +accept a small coin in return for a promise to seek Polycrates' +ring in another part of the town? (He hands him a coin.) Post +nummos virtus. ... Another echo. You must go at once. + +BEGGAR. I will. But you've given me far too much. I'll return +three-quarters of it. Now we owe one another nothing but +friendship. + +STRANGER. Friendship! Am I a friend of yours? + +BEGGAR. Well, I am of yours. When one's alone in the world one +can't be particular. + +STRANGER. Then let me tell you you forget yourself... + +BEGGAR. Only too pleased! But when we meet again I'll have a word +of welcome for you. (Exit.) + +STRANGER (sitting down again and drawing in the dust with his +stick). Sunday afternoon! A long, dank, sad time, after the usual +Sunday dinner of roast beef, cabbage and watery potatoes. Now the +older people are testing, the younger playing chess and smoking. +The servants have gone to church and the shops are shut. This +frightful afternoon, this day of rest, when there's nothing to +engage the soul, when it's as hard to meet a friend as to get into +a wine shop. (The LADY comes back again, she is noun wearing a +flower at her breast.) Strange! I can't speak without being +contradicted at once! + +LADY. So you're still here? + +STRANGER. Whether I sit here, or elsewhere, and write in the sand +doesn't seem to me to matter--as long so I write in the sand. + +LADY. What are you writing? May I see? + +STRANGER. I think you'll find: Eve 1864. ... No, don't step on it. + +LADY. What happens then? + +STRANGER. A disaster for you ... and for me. + +LADY. You know that? + +STRANGER. Yes, and more. That the Christmas rose you're wearing is +a mandragora. Its symbolical meaning is malice and calumny; but it +was once used in medicine for the healing of madness. Will you give +it me? + +LADY (hesitating). As medicine? + +STRANGER. Of course. (Pause.) Have you read my books? + +LADY. You know I have. And that it's you I have to thank for giving +me freedom and a belief in human rights and human dignity. + +STRANGER. Then you haven't read the recent ones? + +LADY. No. And if they're not like the earlier ones I don't want to. + +STRANGER. Then promise never to open another book of mine. + +LADY. Let me think that over. Very well, I promise. + +STRANGER. Good! But see you keep your promise. Remember what +happened to Bluebeard's wife when curiosity tempted her into the +forbidden chamber. ... + +LADY. You see, already you make demands like those of a Bluebeard. +What you don't see, or have long since forgotten, is that I'm +married, and that my husband's a doctor, and that he admires your +work. So that his house is open to you, if you wish to be made +welcome there. + +STRANGER. I've done all I can to forget it. I've expunged it from +my memory so that it no longer has any reality for me. + +LADY. If that's so, will you come home with me to-night? + +STRANGER. No. Will you come with me? + +LADY. Where? + +STRANGER. Anywhere! I have no home, only a trunk. Money I sometimes +have--though not often. It's the one thing life has capriciously +refused me, perhaps because I never desired it intensely enough. +(The LADY shakes her head.) Well? What are you thinking? + +LADY. I'm surprised I'm not angry with you. But you're not serious. + +STRANGER. Whether I am or not's all one to me. Ah! There's the +organ! It won't be long now before the drink shops open. + +LADY. Is it true _you_ drink? + +STRANGER. Yes. A great deal! Wine makes my soul from her prison, up +into the firmament, where she what has never yet been seen, and +hears what men never yet heard. ... + +LADY. And the day after? + +STRANGER. I have the most delightful scruples of conscience! I +experience the purifying emotions of guilt and repentance. I enjoy +the sufferings of the body, whilst my soul hovers like smoke about +my head. It is as if one were suspended between Life and Death, +when the spirit feels that she has already opened her pinions and +could fly aloft, if she would. + +LADY. Come into the church for a moment. You'll hear no sermon, +only the beautiful music of vespers. + +STRANGER. No. Not into church! It depresses me because I feel I +don't belong there. ... That I'm an unhappy soul and that it's as +impossible for me to re-enter as to become a child again. + +LADY. You feel all that ... already? + +STRANGER. Yes. I've got that far. I feel as if I lay hacked in +pieces and were being slowly melted in Medea's cauldron. Either I +shall be sent to the soap-boilers, or arise renewed from my own +dripping! It depends on Medea's skill! + +LADY. That sounds like the word of an oracle. We must see if you +can't become a child again. + +STRANGER. We should have to start with the cradle; and this time +with the right child. + +LADY. Exactly! Wait here for me whilst I go into the church. If the +cafe were open I'd ask you please not to drink. But luckily it's +shut. + +(The LADY exits. The STRANGER sits down again and draws in the +sand. Enter six funeral attendants in brown with some mourners. One +of them carries a banner with the insignia of the Carpenters, +draped in brown crepe; another a large axe decorated with spruce, a +third a cushion with a chairman's mallet. They stop outside the +cafe and wait.) + +STRANGER. Excuse me, whose funeral have you been attending? + +FIRST MOURNER. A house-breaker's. (He imitates the ticking of a +clock.) + +STRANGER. A real house-breaker? Or the insect sort, that lodges in +the woodwork and goes 'tick-tick'? + +FIRST MOURNER. Both--but mainly the insect sort. What do they call +them? + +STRANGER (to himself). He wants to fool me into saying the +death-watch beetle. So I won't. You mean a burglar? + +SECOND MOURNER. No. (The clock is again heard ticking.) + +STRANGER. Are you trying to frighten me? Or does the dead man work +miracles? In that case I'd better explain that my nerves are good, +and that I don't believe in miracles. But I do find it strange that +the mourners wear brown. Why not black? It's cheap and suitable. + +THIRD MOURNER. To us, in our simplicity, it looks black; but if +Your Honour wishes it, it shall look brown to you. + +STRANGER. A queer company! They give me an uneasy feeling I'd like +to ascribe to the wine I drank yesterday. If I were to ask if that +were spruce, you'd probably say--well what? + +FIRST MOURNER. Vine leaves. + +STRANGER. I thought it would not be spruce! The cafe's opening, at +last! (The Cafe opens, the STRANGER sits at a table and is served +with wine. The MOURNERS sit at the other tables.) They must have +been glad to be rid of him, if the mourners start drinking as soon +as the funeral's over. + +FIRST MOURNER. He was a good-for-nothing, who couldn't take life +seriously. + +STRANGER. And who probably drank? + +SECOND MOURNER. Yes. + +THIRD MOURNER. And let others support his wife and children. + +STRANGER. He shouldn't have done so. Is that why his friends speak +so well of him now? Please don't shake my table when I'm drinking. + +SECOND MOURNER. When I'm drinking, I don't mind. + +STRANGER. Well, I do. There's a great difference between us! (The +MOURNERS whisper together. The BEGGAR comes back.) Here's the +beggar again! + +BEGGAR (sitting down at a table). Wine. Moselle! + +LANDLORD (consulting a police last). I can't serve you: you've not +paid your taxes. Here's your name, age and profession, and the +decision of the court. + +BEGGAR. Omnia serviliter pro dominatione! I'm a free man with a +university education. I refused to pay taxes because I didn't want +to become a member of parliament. Moselle! + +LANDLORD. You'll get free transport to the poor house, if you don't +get out. + +STRANGER. Couldn't you gentlemen settle this somewhere else. You're +disturbing your patrons. + +LANDLORD. You can witness I'm in the right. + +STRANGER. No. The whole thing's too distressing. Even without +paying taxes he has the right to enjoy life's small pleasures. + +LANDLORD. So you're the kind who'd absolve vagabonds from their +duties? + +STRANGER. This is too much! I'd have you know that I'm a famous +man. (The LANDLORD and MOURNERS laugh.) + +LANDLORD. Infamous, probably! Let me look at the police list, and +see if the description tallies: thirty-eight, brown hair, +moustache, blue eyes; no settled employment, means unknown; +married, but has deserted his wife and children; well known for +revolutionary views on social questions: gives impression he is not +in full possession of his faculties. ... It fits! + +STRANGER (rising, pale and taken aback). What? + +LANDLORD. Yes. It fits all right. + +BEGGAR. Perhaps he's on the list. And not me! + +LANDLORD. It looks like it. In any case, both of you had better +clear out. + +BEGGAR (to the STRANGER). Shall we? + +STRANGER. We? This begins to look like a conspiracy. + +(The church bells are heard. The sun comes out and illuminates the +coloured rose window above the church door, which is now opened, +disclosing the interior. The organ is heard and the choir singing +Ave Maris Stella.) + +LADY (coming from the church). Where are you? What are you doing? +Why did you call me? Must you hang on a woman's skirts like a +child? + +STRANGER. I'm afraid now. Things are happening that have no natural +explanation. + +LADY. But you were afraid of nothing. Not even death! + +STRANGER. Death ... no. But of something else, the unknown. + +LADY. Listen. Give me your hand. You're ill, I'll take you to a +doctor. Come! + +STRANGER. If you like. But tell me: is this carnival, or ... reality? + +LADY. It's real enough. + +STRANGER. This beggar must be a wretched fellow. Is it true he +resembles me? + +LADY. He will, if you go on drinking. Now go to the post office and +get your letter. And then come with me. + +STRANGER. No, I won't. It'll only be about lawsuits. + +LADY. If not? + +STRANGER. Malicious gossip. + +LADY. Well, do as you wish. No one can escape his fate. At this +moment I feel a higher power is sitting in judgment on us and has +made a decision. + +STRANGER. You feel that, too! I heard the hammer fall just now; and +the chairs being pushed back. The clerk's being sent to find me! +Oh, the suspense! No, I can't follow you. + +LADY. Tell me, what have you done to me? In the church I found I +couldn't pray. A light on the altar was extinguished and an icy +wind blew in my face when I heard you call me. + +STRANGER. I didn't call you. But I wanted you. + +LADY. You're not as weak as you pretend. You have great strength; +and I'm afraid of you. ... + +STRANGER. When I'm alone I've no strength at all; but if I can find +a single companion I grow strong. I shall be strong now; and so +I'll follow you. + +LADY. Perhaps you can free me from the werewolf. + +STRANGER. Who's he? + +LADY. That's what I call him. + +STRANGER. Count on me. Killing dragons, freeing princesses, +defeating werewolves--that is Life! + +LADY. Then come, my liberator! + +(She draws her veil over her face, kisses him on the mouth and +hurries out. The STRANGER stands where he is for a moment, +surprised and stunned. A loud chord sung by women's voices, rather +like a cry, is heard from the church. The rose window suddenly +grows dark and the tree above the seat is shaken by the wind. The +MOURNERS rise and look at the sky, as if they could see something +terrifying. The STRANGER hurries out after the LADY.) + + +SCENE II + +DOCTOR'S HOUSE + +[Courtyard enclosed on three sides by a single-storied house with a +tiled roof. Small windows in all three facades. Right, verandah +with glass doors. Left, climbing roses and bee-hives outside the +windows. In the middle of the courtyard a woodpile in the form of a +cupola. A well beside it. The top of a walnut tree is seen above +the central facade of the house. In the corner, right, a garden +gate. By the well a large tortoise. On right, entrance below to a +wine-cellar. An ice-chest and dust-bin. The DOCTOR'S SISTER enters +from the verandah with a telegram.] + +SISTER. Now misfortune will fall on your house. + +DOCTOR. When has it not, my dear sister? + +SISTER. This time. ... Ingeborg's coming and bringing ... guess +whom? + +DOCTOR. Wait! I know, because I've long foreseen this, even desired +it, for he's a writer I've always admired. I've learnt much from +him and often wished to meet him. Now he's coming, you say. Where +did Ingeborg meet him? + +SISTER. In town, it seems. Probably in some literary _salon_. + +DOCTOR. I've often wondered whether this man was the boy of the +same name who was my friend at school. I hope not; for he seemed +one that fortune would treat harshly. And in a life-time he'll have +given his unhappy tendencies full scope. + +SISTER. Don't let him come here. Go out. Say you're engaged. + +DOCTOR. No. One can't escape one's fate. + +SISTER. But you've never bowed your head to anyone! Why crawl +before this spectre, and call him fate? + +DOCTOR. Life has taught me to. I've wasted time and energy in +fighting the inevitable. + +SISTER. But why allow your wife to behave like this? She'll +compromise you both. + +DOCTOR. You think so? Because, when I made her break off her +engagement I held out false hopes to her of a life of freedom, +instead of the slavery she'd known. Besides, I could never love her +if I were in a position to give her orders. + +SISTER. You'd be friends with your enemy? + +DOCTOR. Oh ...! + +SISTER. Will you let her bring someone into the house who'll +destroy you? If you only knew how I hate that man. + +DOCTOR. I do. His last book's terrible; and shows a certain lack +of mental balance. + +SISTER. They ought to shut him up. + +DOCTOR. Many people have said so, but I don't think him bad enough. + +SISTER. Because you're eccentric yourself, and live in daily +contact with a woman who's mad. + +DOCTOR. I admit abnormality has always had a strong attraction for +me, and originality is at least not commonplace. (The syren of a +steamer is heard.) What was that? + +SISTER. Your nerves are on edge. It's only the steamer. (Pause.) +Now, I implore you, go away! + +DOCTOR. I ought to want to; but I'm held fast. (Pause.) From here I +can see his portrait in my study. The sunlight throws a shadow on +it that changes it completely. It makes him look like. ... +Horrible! You see what I mean? + +HATER. The devil! Come away! + +DOCTOR. I can't. + +SISTER. Then at least defend yourself. + +DOCTOR. I always do. But this time I feel a thunder storm +gathering. How often have I tried to fly, and not been able to. +It's as if the earth were iron and I a compass needle. If +misfortune comes, it's not of my fee choice. They've come in +at the door. + +SISTER. I heard nothing. + +DOCTOR. I did! Now I can see them, too! He _is_ the friend of my +boyhood. He got into trouble at school; but I was blamed and +punished. He was nick-named Caesar, I don't know why. + +SISTER. And this man. ... + +DOCTOR. That's what always happens. Caesar! (The LADY comes in.) + +LADY. I've brought a visitor. + +DOCTOR. I know, and he's welcome. + +LADY. I left him in the house, to wash. + +DOCTOR. Well, are you satisfied with your conquest? + +LADY. I think he's the unhappiest man I ever met. + +DOCTOR. That's saying a great deal. + +LADY. Yes, there's enough unhappiness for all of us. + +DOCTOR. There is! (To his SISTER.) Would you ask him to come out +here? (His SISTER goes out.) Have you had an interesting time? + +LADY. Yes. I met a number of strange people. Have you had many +patients? + +DOCTOR. No. The consulting room's empty this morning. I think the +practice is going down. + +LADY (kindly). I'm sorry. Tell me, oughtn't that woodpile to be +taken into the house? It only draws the damp. + +DOCTOR (without reproach). Yes, and the bees should be killed, too; +and the fruit in the garden picked. But I've no time to do it. + +LADY. You're tired. + +DOCTOR. Tired of everything. + +LADY (without bitterness). And you've a wife who can't even help +you. + +DOCTOR (kindly). You mustn't say that, if I don't think so. + +LADY (turning towards the verandah). Here he is! + +(The STRANGER comes in through the verandah, dressed in a way that +makes him look younger than before. He has an air of forced +candour. He seems to recognise the doctor, and shrinks back, but +recovers himself.) + +DOCTOR. You're very welcome. + +STRANGER. It's kind of you. + +DOCTOR. You bring good weather with you. And we need it; for it's +rained for six weeks. + +STRANGER. Not for seven? It usually rains for seven if it rains on +St. Swithin's. But that's later on--how foolish of me! + +DOCTOR. As you're used to town life I'm afraid you'll find the +country dull. + +STRANGER. Oh no. I'm no more at home there than here. Excuse me +asking, but haven't we met before--when we were boys? + +DOCTOR. Never. + +(The LADY has sat down at the table and is crocheting.) + +STRANGER. Are you sure? + +DOCTOR. Perfectly. I've followed your literary career from the +first with great interest; as I know my wife has told you. So +that if we _had_ met I'd certainly have remembered your name. +(Pause.) Well, now you can see how a country doctor lives! + +STRANGER. If you could guess what the life of a so-called +liberator's like, you wouldn't envy him. + +DOCTOR. I can imagine it; for I've seen how men love their chains. +Perhaps that's as it should be. + +STRANGER (listening). Strange. Who's playing in the village? + +DOCTOR. I don't know. Do you, Ingeborg? + +LADY. No. + +STRANGER. Mendelssohn's Funeral March! It pursues me. I never know +whether I've heard it or not. + +DOCTOR. Do you suffer from hallucinations? + +STRANGER. No. But I'm pursued by trivial incidents. Can't you hear +anyone playing? + +DOCTOR. Yes. + +LADY. Someone _is_ playing. Mendelssohn. + +DOCTOR. Not surprising. + +STRANGER. No. But that it should be played precisely at the right +place, at the right time . ... (He gets up.) + +DOCTOR. To reassure you, I'll ask my sister. (Exit through the +verandah.) + +STRANGER (to the LADY). I'm stifling here. I can't pass a night +under this roof. Your husband looks like a werewolf and in his +presence you turn into a pillar of salt. Murder has been done in +this house; the place is haunted. I shall escape as soon as I can +find an excuse. + +(The DOCTOR comes back.) + +DOCTOR. It's the girl at the post office. + +STRANGER (nervously). Good. That's all right. You've an original +house. That pile of wood, for instance. + +DOCTOR. Yes. It's been struck by lightning twice. + +STRANGER. Terrible! And you still keep it? + +DOCTOR. That's why. I've made it higher out of defiance; and to +give shade in summer. It's like the prophet's gourd. But in the +autumn it must go into the wood shed. + +STRANGER (looking round). Christmas roses, too! Where did you get +them? They're flowering in summer! Everything's upside down here. + +DOCTOR. They were given me by a patient. He's not quite sane. + +STRANGER. Is he staying in the house? + +DOCTOR. Yes. He's a quiet soul, who ponders on the purposelessness +of nature. He thinks it foolish for hellebore to grow in the snow +and freeze; so he puts the plants in the cellar and beds them out +in the spring. + +STRANGER. But a madman ... in the house. Most unpleasant! + +DOCTOR. He's very harmless. + +STRANGER. How did he lose his wits? + +DOCTOR. Who can tell. It's a disease of the mind, not the body. + +STRANGER. Tell me--is he here--now? + +DOCTOR. Yes. He's free to wander in the garden and arrange +creation. But if his presence disquiets you, we can shut him up. + +STRANGER. Why aren't such poor devils put out of--their misery? + +DOCTOR. It's hard to know whether they're ripe. ... + +STRANGER. What for? + +DOCTOR. For what's to come. + +STRANGER. There _is_ nothing. (Pause.) + +DOCTOR. Who knows! + +STRANGER. I feel strangely uneasy. Have you medical material ... +specimens ... dead bodies? + +DOCTOR. Oh yes. In the ice-box--for the authorities, you know. (He +pulls out an arm and leg.) Look here. + +STRANGER. No. Too much like Bluebeard! + +DOCTOR (sharply). What do you mean by that? (Looking at the LADY.) +Do you think I kill my wives? + +STRANGER. Oh no. It's clear you don't. Is this house haunted, too? + +DOCTOR. Oh yes. Ask my wife.(He disappears behind the wood pile +where neither the STRANGER nor the LADY can see him.) + +LADY. You needn't whisper, my husband's deaf. Though he can lip +read. + +STRANGER. Then let me say that I've never known a more painful +half-hour. We exchange the merest commonplaces, because none of us +has the courage to say what he thinks. I suffered so that the idea +came to me of opening my veins to get relief. But now I'd like to +tell him the truth and have done with it. Shall we say to his face +that we mean to go away, and that you've had enough of his +foolishness? + +LADY. If you talk like that I'll begin to hate you. You must behave +under any circumstances. + +STRANGER. How well brought up you are! (The DOCTOR now becomes +visible to the STRANGER and the LADY, who continue their +conversation.) Come away with me, before the sun goes down. +(Pause.) Tell me, why did you kiss me yesterday? + +LADY. But. ... + +STRANGER. Supposing he could hear what we say! I don't trust him. + +DOCTOR. What shall we do to amuse our guest? + +LADY. He doesn't care much for amusement. His life's not been +happy. + +(The DOCTOR blows a whistle. The MADMAN comes into the garden. He +wears a laurel wreath and his clothes are curious.) + +DOCTOR. Come here, Caesar. + +STRANGER (displeased). What? Is he called Caesar? + +DOCTOR. No. It's a nickname I gave him, to remind me of a boy I was +at school with. + +STRANGER (disturbed). Oh? + +DOCTOR. He was involved in a strange incident, and I got all the +blame. + +LADY (to the STRANGER). You'd never believe a boy could have been +so corrupt. + +(The STRANGER looks distressed. The MADMAN comes nearer.) + +DOCTOR. Caesar, come and make your bow to our famous writer. + +CAESAR. Is this the great man? + +LADY (to the DOCTOR). Why did you let him come, if it annoys our +guest? + +DOCTOR. Caesar, you must behave. Or I shall have to whip you. + +CAESAR. Yes. He is Caesar, but he's not great. He doesn't even know +which came first, the hen or the egg. But I do. + +STRANGER (to the LADY). I shall go. Is this a trap? What am I to +think? In a minute he'll unloose his bees to amuse me. + +LADY. Trust me ... whatever happens! And turn your face away when +you speak. + +STRANGER. This werewolf never leaves us. + +DOCTOR (looking at his watch). You must excuse me for about an +hour. I've a patient to visit. I hope the time won't hang on your +hands. + +STRANGER. I'm used to waiting, for what never comes. ... + +DOCTOR (to the MADMAN). Come along, Caesar. I must lock you up in +the cellar. (He goes out with the MADMAN.) + +STRANGER (to the LADY). What does that mean? Someone's pursuing me! +You told me your husband was well disposed towards me, and I +believed you. But he can't open his mouth without wounding me. +Every word pricks like a goad. Then this funeral march ... it's +really being played! And here, once more, Christmas roses! Why does +everything follow in an eternal round? Dead bodies, beggars, +madmen, human destinies and childhood memories? Come away. Let me +free you from this hell. + +LADY. That's why I brought you here. Also that it could never be +said you'd stolen the wife of another. But one thing I must ask +you: can I put my trust in you? + +STRANGER. You mean in my feelings? + +LADY. I don't speak of them. We're taking them for granted. They'll +endure as long as they'll endure. + +STRANGER. You mean in my position? Large sums are owed me. All I +have to do is to write or telegraph. ... + +LADY. Then I will trust you. (Putting away her work.) Now go +straight out of that door. Follow the syringa hedge till you +find a gate. We'll meet in the next village. + +STRANGER (hesitating). I don't like leaving the back way. I'd +rather have fought it out with him here. + +LADY. Quick! + +STRANGER. Won't you come with me? + +LADY. Yes. But then I must go first. (She turns and blows a kiss +towards the verandah.) My poor werewolf! + + +SCENE III + +ROOM IN AN HOTEL + +[The STRANGER enters followed by the LADY. A WAITER.] + +STRANGER (who is carrying a suitcase). Is no other room free? + +WAITER. No. + +STRANGER. I don't want this one. + +LADY. But it's the only one: the other hotels are all full. + +STRANGER (to the WAITER). You can go. (The LADY sinks on to a chair +without taking off her hat and coat.) What is it you want? + +LADY. I wish you'd kill me. + +STRANGER. I don't wonder! Thrown out of hotels, because we're not +married, and pestered by the police, we're forced to come to this +place, the last I'd have wished. To this very room, number eight. ... +Someone must be against me! + +LADY. Is this eight? + +STRANGER. What? Have you been here before? + +LADY. Have you? + +STRANGER. Yes. + +LADY. Then let's get away. Onto the road, into the woods. It +doesn't matter where. + +STRANGER. I should like to. But after this terrible time I'm as +tired as you are. I felt this was to be our journey's end. I +resisted, I tried to go in the opposite direction, but trains were +late, or we missed them, and we had to come here. To this room! The +devil's in it--at least what I call the devil. But I'll be even +with him yet. + +LADY. It seems we'll never find peace on earth again. + +STRANGER. Nothing's been changed. The dying Christmas roses. +(Looking at two pictures.) There he is again. And that's the Hotel +Breuer in Montreux. I've stayed there, too. + +LADY. Did you go to the post office? + +STRANGER. I thought you'd ask me that. I did. And as an answer to +five letters and three telegrams I found a telegram saying that my +publisher had gone away for a fortnight. + +LADY. Then we're lost. + +STRANGER. Very nearly. + +LADY. The waiter will be back in five minutes and ask for our +passports. Then the landlord will come up and tell us to go. + +STRANGER. Then only one course remains. + +LADY. Two. + +STRANGER. The second's impossible. + +LADY. What is the second? + +STRANGER. To go to your parents in the country. + +LADY. You're beginning to read my thoughts. + +STRANGER. We no longer have any secrets from one another. + +LADY. Then the whole dream's at an end. + +STRANGER. It maybe. + +LADY. You must telegraph again. + +STRANGER. I ought to, I know. But I can't stir from here. I no +longer believe that what I do can succeed. Someone's paralysed me. + +LADY. And me! We decided never to speak of the past and yet we drag +it with us. Look at this carpet. Those flowers seem to form. ... + +STRANGER. Him! It's him. He's everywhere. How many hundred times +has he. ... Yet I see someone else in the pattern of the table +cloth. No, it's an illusion! Any moment now I'll hear my funeral +march--then everything will be complete. (Listening.) There! + +LADY. I hear nothing. + +STRANGER. Am I ... am I. ... + +LADY. Shall we go home? + +STRANGER. The last place. The worst of all! To arrive like an +adventurer, a beggar. Impossible! + +LADY. Yes, I know, but. ... No, it would be too much. To bring +shame, disgrace and sorrow to the old people, and to see you +humiliated, and you me! We could never respect one another again. + +STRANGER. It would be worse than death. Yet I feel it's inevitable, +and I begin to long for it, to get it over quickly, if it must be. + +LADY (taking out her work). But I don't want to be reviled in your +presence. We must find another way. If only we were married--and +divorce would be easy, because my former marriage isn't recognised +by the laws of the country in which it was contracted. ... All we +need do is to go away and be married by the same priest ... but +that would be wounding for you! + +STRANGER. It would match the rest! For this honeymoon's becoming a +pilgrimage! + +LADY. You're right! The landlord will be here in five minutes to +turn us out. There's only one way to end such humiliations. Of our +own free will we must accept the worst. ... I can hear footsteps! + +STRANGER. I've foreseen this and am ready. Ready for everything. If +I can't overcome the unseen, I can show you how much I can endure. ... +You must pawn your jewellery. I can buy it back when my publisher +gets home, if he's not drowned bathing or killed in a railway +accident. A man as ambitious as I must be ready to sacrifice his +honour first of all. + +LADY. As we're agreed, wouldn't it be better to give up this room? +Oh, God! He's coming now. + +STRANGER. Let's go. We'll run the gauntlet of waiters, maids and +servants. Red with shame and pale with indignation. Animals have +their lairs to hide in, but we are forced to flaunt our shame. +(Pause.) Let down your veil. + +LADY. So this is freedom! + +STRANGER. And I ... am the liberator. (Exeunt.) + + +SCENE IV + +BY THE SEA + +[A hut on a cliff by the sea. Outside it a table with chairs. The +STRANGER and the LADY are dressed in less sombre clothing and look +younger than in the previous scene. The LADY is doing crochet work.] + +STRANGER. Three peaceful happy days at my wife's side, and anxiety +returns! + +LADY. What do you fear? + +STRANGER. That this will not last long. + +LADY. Why do you think so? + +STRANGER. I don't know. I believe it must end suddenly, terribly. +There's something deceptive even the sunshine and the stillness. I +feel that happiness if not part of my destiny. + +LADY. But it's all over! My parents are resigned to what we've +done. My husband understands and has written a kind letter. + +STRANGER. What does that matter? Fate spins the web; once more I +hear the mallet fall and the chairs being pushed back from the +table--judgment has been pronounced. Yet that must have happened +before I was born, because even in childhood I began to serve my +sentence. There's no moment in my life on which can look back with +happiness. + +LADY. Unfortunate man! Yet you've had everything you wished from +life! + +STRANGER. Everything. Unluckily I forgot to wish for money. + +LADY. You're thinking of that again. + +STRANGER. Are you surprised? + +LADY. Quiet! + +STRANGER. What is it you're always working at? You sit there like +one of the Fates and draw the threads through your fingers. But go +on. The most beautiful of sights is a woman bending over her work, +or over her child. What are you making? + +LADY. Nothing. Crochet work. + +STRANGER. It looks like a network of nerves and knots on which +you've fixed your thoughts. The brain must look like that--from +within. + +LADY. If only I thought of half the things you imagine. ... But I +think of nothing. + +STRANGER. Perhaps that's why I feel so contented when I'm with you. +Why, I find you so perfect that I can no longer imagine life +without you! Now the clouds have blown away. Now the sky is clear! +The wind soft--feel how it caresses us! This is Life! Yes, now I +live. And I feel my spirit growing, spreading, becoming tenuous, +infinite. I am everywhere, in the ocean which is my blood, in the +rocks that are my bones, in the trees, in the flowers; and my head +reaches up to the heavens. I can survey the whole universe. I _am_ +the universe. And I feel the power of the Creator within me, for I +am He! I wish I could grasp the all in my hand and refashion it +into something more perfect, more lasting, more beautiful. I want +all creation and created beings to be happy, to be born without +pain, live without suffering, and die in quiet content. Eve! Die +with me now! This moment, for the next will bring sorrow again. + +LADY. I'm not ready to die. + +STRANGER. Why not? + +LADY. I believe there are things I've not yet done. Perhaps I've +not suffered enough. + +STRANGER. Is that the purpose of life? + +LADY. It seems to be. (Pause.) Now I want to ask one thing of you. + +STRANGER. Well? + +LADY. Don't blaspheme against heaven again, or compare yourself +with the Creator, for then you remind me of Caesar at home. + +STRANGER (excitedly). Caesar! How can you say that ...? + +LADY. I'm sorry if I've said anything I shouldn't. It was foolish +of me to say 'at home.' Forgive me. + +STRANGER. You were thinking that Caesar and I resemble one another +in our blasphemies? + +LADY. Of course not. + +STRANGER. Strange. I believe you when you say you don't mean to +hurt me; yet you _do_ hurt me, as all the others do. Why? + +LADY. Because you're over-sensitive. + +STRANGER. You say that again! Do you think I've sensitive hidden +places? + +LADY. No. I didn't mean that. And now the spirits of suspicion and +discord are coming between us. Drive them away--at once. + +STRANGER. You mustn't say I blaspheme if I use the well-known +words: See, we are like unto the gods. + +LADY. But if that's so, why can't you help yourself, or us? + +STRANGER. Can't I? Wait. As yet we've only seen the beginning. + +LADY. If the end is like it, heaven help us! + +STRANGER. I know what you fear; and I meant to hold back a pleasant +surprise. But now I won't torment you longer. (He takes out a +registered letter, not yet opened.) Look! + +LADY. The money's come! + +STRANGER. This morning. Who can destroy me now? + +LADY. Don't speak like that. You know who could. + +STRANGER. Who? + +LADY. He who punishes the arrogance of men. + +STRANGER. And their courage. That especially. This was my Achilles' +heel; I bore with everything, except this fearful lack of money. + +LADY. May I ask how much they've sent? + +STRANGER. I don't know. I've not opened the letter. But I do know +about how much to expect. I'd better look and see. (He opens the +letter.) What? Only an account showing I'm owed nothing! There's +something uncanny in this. + +LADY. I begin to think so, too. + +STRANGER. I know I'm damned. But I'm ready to hurl the curse back +at him who so nobly cursed me. ... (He throws up the letter.) With +a curse of my own. + +LADY. Don't. You frighten me. + +STRANGER. Fear me, so long as you don't despise me! The challenge +has been thrown down; now you shall see a conflict between two +great opponents. (He opens his coat and waistcoat and looks +threateningly aloft.) Strike me with your lightning if you dare! +Frighten me with your thunder if you can! + +LADY. Don't speak like that. + +STRANGER. I will. Who dares break in on my dream of love? Who tears +the cup from my lips; and the woman from my arms? Those who envy +me, be they gods or devils! Little bourgeois gods who parry sword +thrusts with pin-pricks from behind, who won't stand up to their +man, but strike at him with unpaid bills. A backstairs way of +discrediting a master before his servants. They never attack, never +draw, merely soil and decry! Powers, lords and masters! All are the +same! + +LADY. May heaven not punish you. + +STRANGER. Heaven's blue and silent. The ocean's silent and stupid. +Listen, I can hear a poem--that's what I call it when an idea +begins to germinate in my mind. First the rhythm; this time like +the thunder of hooves and the jingle of spurs and accoutrements. +But there's a fluttering too, like a sail flapping. ... Banners! + +LADY. No. It's the wind. Can't you hear it in the trees? + +STRANGER. Quiet! They're riding over a bridge, a wooden bridge. +There's no water in the brook, only pebbles. Wait! Now I can hear +them, men and women, saying a rosary. The angels' greeting. Now I +can see--on what you're working--a large kitchen, with white-washed +walls, it has three small latticed windows, with flowers in them. +In the left-hand corner a hearth, on the right a table with wooden +seats. And above the table, in the corner, hangs a crucifix, with a +lamp burning below. The ceiling's of blackened beams, and dried +mistletoe hangs on the wall. + +LADY (frightened). Where can you see all that? + +STRANGER. On your work. + +LADY. Can you see people there? + +STRANGER. A very old man's sitting at the table, bent over a game +bag, his hands clasped in prayer. A woman, so longer young, kneels +on the floor. Now once more I hear the angels' greeting, as if far +away. But those two in the kitchen are as motionless as figures of +wax. A veil shrouds everything. ... No, that was no poem! (Waking.) +It was something else. + +LADY. It was reality! The kitchen at home, where you've never set +foot. That old man was my grandfather, the forester, and the woman +my mother! They were praying for us! It was six o'clock and the +servants were saying a rosary outside, as they always do. + +STRANGER. You make me uneasy. Is this the beginning of second +sight? Still, it was beautiful. A snow-white room, with flowers +and mistletoe. But why should they pray for us? + +LADY. Why indeed! Have we done wrong? + +STRANGER. What is wrong? + +LADY. I've read there's no such thing. And yet ... I long to see my +mother; not my father, for he turned me out as he did her. + +STRANGER. Why should he have turned your mother out? + +LADY. Who can say? The children least of all. Let us go to my home. +I long to. + +STRANGER. To the lion's den, the snake pit? One more or less makes +no matter. I'll do it for you, but not like the Prodigal Son. No, +you shall see that I can go through fire and water for your sake. + +LADY. How do you know ...? + +STRANGER. I can guess. + +LADY. And can you guess that the path to where my parents live in +the mountains is too steep for carts to use? + +STRANGER. It sounds extraordinary, but I read or dreamed something +of the kind. + +LADY. You may have. But you'll see nothing that's not natural, +though perhaps unusual, for men and women are a strange race. Are +you ready to follow me? + +STRANGER. I'm ready--for anything! + +(The LADY kisses him on the forehead and makes the sign of the +cross simply, timidly and without gestures.) + +LADY. Then come! + + +SCENE V + +ON THE ROAD + +[A landscape with hills; a chapel, right, in the far distance on a +rise. The road, flanked by fruit trees, winds across the +background. Between the trees hills can be seen on which are +crucifixes, chapels and memorials to the victims of accidents. In +the foreground a sign post with the legend, 'Beggars not allowed in +this parish.' The STRANGER and the LADY.] + +LADY. You're tired. + +STRANGER. I won't deny it. But it's humiliating to confess I'm +hungry, because the money's gone. I never thought that would happen +to me. + +LADY. It seems we must be prepared for anything, for I think we've +fallen into disfavour. My shoe's split, and I could weep at our +having to go like this, looking like beggars. + +STRANGER (pointing to the signpost). And beggars are not allowed in +this parish. Why must that be stuck up in large letters here? + +LADY. It's been there as long as I can remember. Think of it, I've +not been back since I was a child. And In those days I found the +way short and the hills lower. The trees, too, were smaller, and I +think I used to hear birds singing. + +STRANGER. Birds sang all the year for you then! Now they only sing +in the spring--and autumn's not far off. But in those days you used +to dance along this endless way of Calvaries, plucking flowers at +the feet of the crosses. (A horn in the distance.) What's that? + +LADY. My grandfather coming back from shooting. A good old man. +Let's go on and reach the house by dark. + +STRANGER. Is it still far? + +LADY. No. Only across the hills and over the river. + +STRANGER. Is that the river I hear? + +LADY. The river by which I was born and brought up. I was eighteen +before I crossed over to this bank, to see what was in the blue of +the distance. ... Now I've seen. + +STRANGER. You're weeping! + +LADY. Poor old man! When I got into the boat, he said: My child, +beyond lies the world. When you've seen enough, come back to your +mountains, and they will hide you. Now I've seen enough. Enough! + +STRANGER. Let's go. It's beginning to grow dusk already. (They pick +up their travelling capes and go on.) + + +SCENE VI + +IN A RAVINE + +[Entrance to a ravine between steep cliffs covered with pines. In +the foreground a wooden shanty, a broom by the door with a ramshorn +hanging from its handle. Left, a smithy, a red glow showing through +its open door. Right, a flourmill. In the background the road +through the ravine with mill-stream and footbridge. The rock +formations look like giant profiles.] + +[On the rise of the curtain the SMITH is at the smithy door and the +MILLER'S WIFE at the door of the mill. When the LADY enters they +sign to one another and disappear. The clothing of both the LADY +and the STRANGER is torn and shabby.] + +STRANGER. They're hiding, from us, probably. + +LADY. I don't think so. + +STRANGER. What a strange place! Everything seems conspire to arouse +disquiet. What's that broom there? And the horn with ointment? +Probably because it's their usual place, but it makes me think of +witchcraft. Why is the smithy black and the mill white? Because +one's sooty and the other covered with flour; yet when I saw the +blacksmith by the light of his forge and the white miller's wife, +it reminded me of an old poem. Look at those giant faces. ... +There's your werewolf from whom I saved you. There he is, in +profile, see! + +LADY. Yes, but it's only the rock. + +STRANGER. Only the rock, and yet it's he. + +LADY. Shall I tell you why we can see him? + +STRANGER. You mean--it's our conscience? Which pricks us when we're +hungry and tired, and is silent when we've eaten and rested. It's +horrible to arrive in rags. Our clothes are torn from climbing +through the brambles. Someone's fighting against me. + +LADY. Why did you challenge him? + +STRANGER. Because I want to fight in the open; not battle with +unpaid bills and empty purses. Anyhow: here's my last copper. The +devil take it, if there is one! (He throws it into the brook.) + +LADY. Oh! We could have paid the ferry with it. Now we'll have to +talk of money when we reach home. + +STRANGER. When can we talk of anything else? + +LADY. That's because you've despised it. + +STRANGER. As I've despised everything. ... + +LADY. But not everything's despicable. Some things are good. + +STRANGER. I've never seen them. + +LADY. Then follow me and you will. + +STRANGER. I'll follow you. (He hesitates when passing the smithy.) + +LADY (who has gone on ahead). Are you frightened of fire? + +STRANGER. No, but ... (The horn is heard in the distance. He +hurries past the smithy after the LADY.) + + +SCENE VII + +IN A KITCHEN + +[A large kitchen with whitewashed walls. Three windows in the +corner, right, so arranged that two are at the back and one in the +right wall. The windows are small and deeply recessed; in the +recesses there are flower pots. The ceiling is beamed and black +with soot. In the left corner a large range with utensils of +copper, iron and tin, and wooden vessels. In the corner, right, a +crucifix with a lamp. Beneath it a four-cornered table with +benches. Bunches of mistletoe on the walls. A door at the back. The +Poorhouse can be seen outside, and through the window at the back +the church. Near the fire bedding for dogs and a table with food +for the poor.] + +[The OLD MAN is sitting at the table beneath the crucifix, with his +hands clasped and a game bag before him. He is a strongly-built man +of over eighty with white hair and along beard, dressed as a +forester. The MOTHER is kneeling on the floor; she is grey-haired +and nearly fifty; her dress is of black-and-white material. The +voices of men, women and children can be clearly heard singing the +last verse of the Angels' Greeting in chorus. 'Holy Mary, Mother of +God, pray for us poor sinners, now and in the hour of death. +Amen.'] + +OLD MAN and MOTHER. Amen! + +MOTHER. Now I'll tell you, Father. They saw two vagabonds by the +river. Their clothing was torn and dirty, for they'd been in the +water. And when it came to paying the ferryman, they'd no money. +Now they're drying their clothes in the ferryman's hut. + +OLD MAN. Let them stay there. + +MOTHER. Don't forbid a beggar your house. He might be an angel. + +OLD MAN. True. Let them come in. + +MOTHER. I'll put food for them on the table for the poor. Do you +mind that? + +OLD MAN. No. + +MOTHER. Shall I give them cider? + +OLD MAN. Yes. And you can light the fire; they'll be cold. + +MOTHER. There's hardly time. But I will, if you wish it, Father. + +OLD MAN (looking out of the window). I think you'd better. + +MOTHER. What are you looking at? + +OLD MAN. The river; it's rising. And I'm asking myself, as I've +done for seventy years--when I shall reach the sea. + +MOTHER. You're sad to-night, Father. + +OLD MAN. ... et introibo ad altare Dei: ad Deum qui laetificat +juventutem meam. Yes. I do feel sad. ... Deus, Deus meus: quare +tristis es anima mea, et quare conturbas me. + +MOTHER. Spera in Deo. ... + +(The Maid comes in, and signs to the MOTHER, who goes over to her. +They whisper together and the maid goes out again.) + +OLD MAN. I heard what you said. O God! Must I bear that too! + +MOTHER. You needn't see them. You can go up to your room. + +OLD MAN. No. It shall be a penance. But why come like this: as +vagabonds? + +MOTHER. Perhaps they lost their way and have had much to endure. + +OLD MAN. But to bring her husband! Is she lost to shame? + +MOTHER. You know Ingeborg's queer nature. She thinks all she does +is fitting, if not right. Have you ever seen her ashamed, or suffer +from a rebuff? I never have. Yet she's not without shame; on the +contrary. And everything she does, however questionable, seems +natural when she does it. + +OLD MAN. I've always wondered why one could never be angry with +her. She doesn't feel herself responsible, or think an insult's +directed at her. She seems impersonal; or rather two persons, one +who does nothing but ill whilst the other gives absolution. ... But +this man! There's no one I've hated from afar so much as he. He +sees evil everywhere; and of no one have I heard so much ill. + +MOTHER. That's true. But it may be Ingeborg's found some mission in +this man's life; and he in hers. Perhaps they're meant to torture +each other into atonement. + +OLD MAN. Perhaps. But I'll have nothing to do with at seems to me +shameful. This man, under my roof! Yet I must accept it, like +everything else. For I've deserved no less. + +MOTHER. Very well then. (The LADY and the STRANGER come in.) You're +welcome. + +LADY. Thank you, Mother. (She looks over to the OLD MAN, who rises +and looks at the STRANGER.) Peace, Grandfather. This is my husband. +Give him your hand. + +OLD MAN. First let me look at him. (He goes to the STRANGER, puts +his hands on his shoulders and looks him in the eyes.) What motives +brought you here? + +STRANGER (simply). None, but to keep my wife company, at her +earnest desire. + +OLD MAN. If that's true, you're welcome! I've a long and stormy +life behind me, and at last I've found a certain peace in solitude. +I beg you not to trouble it. + +STRANGER. I haven't come here to ask favours. I'll take nothing +with me when I go. + +OLD MAN. That's not the answer I wanted; for we all need one +another. I perhaps need you. No one can know, young man. + +LADY. Grandfather! + +OLD MAN. Yes, my child. I shan't wish you happiness, for there's no +such thing; but I wish you strength to bear your destiny. Now I'll +leave you for a little. Your mother will look after you. (He goes +out.) + +LADY (to her mother). Did you lay that table for us, Mother? + +MOTHER. No, it's a mistake, as you can imagine. + +LADY. I know we look wretched. We were lost in the mountains, and +if grandfather hadn't blown his horn... + +MOTHER. Your grandfather gave up hunting long ago. + +LADY. Then it was someone else. ... Listen, Mother, I'll go up now +to the 'rose' room, and get it straight. + +MOTHER. Do. I'll come in a moment. + +(The LADY would like to say something, cannot, and goes out.) + +STRANGER (to the MOTHER). I've seen this room already. + +MOTHER. And I've seen you. I almost expected you. + +STRANGER. As one expects a disaster? + +MOTHER. Why say that? + +STRANGER. Because I sow devastation wherever I go. But as I must go +somewhere, and cannot change my fate, I've lost my scruples. + +MOTHER. Then you're like my daughter--she, too, has no scruples and +no conscience. + +STRANGER. What? + +MOTHER. You think I'm speaking ill of her? I couldn't do that of my +own child. I only draw the comparison, because you know her. + +STRANGER. But I've noticed what you speak of in Eve. + +MOTHER. Why do you call Ingeborg Eve? + +STRANGER. By inventing a name for her I made her mine. I wanted to +change her. ... + +MOTHER. And remake her in your image? (Laughing.) I've been told +that country wizards carve images of their victims, and give them +the names of those they'd bewitch. That was your plan: by means of +this Eve, that you yourself had made, you intended to destroy the +whole Sex! + +STRANGER (looking at the MOTHER in surprise). Those were damnable +words! Forgive me. But you have religious beliefs: how can you +think such things? + +MOTHER. The thoughts were yours. + +STRANGER. This begins to be interesting. I imagined an idyll in the +forest, but this is a witches' cauldron. + +MOTHER. Not quite. You've forgotten, or never knew, that a man +deserted me shamefully, and that you're a man who also shamefully +deserted a woman. + +STRANGER. Frank words. Now I know where I am. + +MOTHER. I'd like to know where I am. Can you support two families? + +STRANGER. If all goes well. + +MOTHER. All doesn't--in this life. Money can be lost. + +STRANGER. But my talent's capital I can never lose. + +MOTHER. Really? The greatest of talents has been known to fail ... +gradually, or suddenly. + +STRANGER. I've never met anyone who could so damp one's courage. + +MOTHER. Pride should be damped. Your last book was much weaker. + +STRANGER. You read it? + +MOTHER. Yes. That's why I know all your secrets. So don't try to +deceive me; it won't go well with you. (Pause.) A trifle, but one +that does us no good here: why didn't you pay the ferryman? + +STRANGER. My heel of Achilles! I threw my last coin away. Can't we +speak of something else than money in this house? + +MOTHER. Oh yes. But in this house we do our duty before we amuse +ourselves. So you came on foot because you had no money? + +STRANGER (hesitating). Yes. ... + +MOTHER (smiling). Probably nothing to eat? + +STRANGER (hesitating). No. ... + +MOTHER. You're a fine fellow! + +STRANGER. In all my life I've never been in such a predicament. + +MOTHER. I can believe it. It's almost a pity. I could laugh at the +figure you cut, if I didn't know it would make you weep, and others +with you. (Pause.) But now you've had your will, hold fast to the +woman who loves you; for if you leave her, you'll never smile +again, and soon forget what happiness was. + +STRANGER. Is that a threat? + +MOTHER. A warning. Go now, and have your supper. + +STRANGER (pointing at the table for the poor). There? + +MOTHER. A poor joke; which might become reality. I've seen such +things. + +STRANGER. Soon I'll believe anything can happen--this is the worst +I've known. + +MOTHER. Worse yet may come. Wait! + +STRANGER (cast down). I'm prepared for anything. + +(Exit. A moment later the OLD MAN comes in.) + +OLD MAN. It was no angel after all. + +MOTHER. No good angel, certainly. + +OLD MAN. Really! (Pause.) You know how superstitious people here +are. As I went down to the river I heard this: a farmer said his +horse shied at 'him'; another that the dogs got so fierce he'd had +to tie them up. The ferryman swore his boat drew less water when +'he' got in. Superstition, but. ... + +MOTHER. But what? + +OLD MAN. It was only a magpie that flew in at her window, though it +was closed. An illusion, perhaps. + +MOTHER. Perhaps. But why does one often see such things at the +right time? + +OLD MAN. This man's presence is intolerable. When he looks at me I +can't breathe. + +MOTHER. We must try to get rid of him. I'm certain he won't care to +stay for long. + +OLD MAN. No. He won't grow old here. (Pause.) Listen, I got a +letter to-night warning me about him. Among other things he's +wanted by the courts. + +MOTHER. The courts? + +OLD MAN. Yes. Money matters. But, remember, the laws of hospitality +protect beggars and enemies. Let him stay a few days, till he's got +over this fearful journey. You can see how Providence has laid +hands on him, how his soul is being ground in the mill ready for +the sieve. ... + +MOTHER. I've felt a call to be a tool in the hands of Providence. + +OLD MAN. Don't confuse it with your wish for vengeance. + +MOTHER. I'll try not to, if I can. + +OLD MAN. Well, good-night. + +MOTHER. Do you think Ingeborg has read his last book? + +OLD MAN. It's unlikely. If she had she'd never have married a man +who held such views. + +MOTHER. No, she's not read it. But now she must. + + +SCENE VIII + +THE 'ROSE' ROOM + +[A simple, pleasantly furnished room in the forester's house. The +walls are colour-washed in red; the curtains are of thin +rose-coloured muslin. In the small latticed windows there are +flowers. On right, a writing-table and bookshelf. Left, a sofa with +rose-coloured curtains above in the form of a baldachino. Tables +and chairs in Old German style. At the back, a door. Outside the +country can be seen and the poorhouse, a dark, unpleasant building +with black, uncurtained windows. Strong sunlight. The LADY is +sitting on the sofa working.] + +MOTHER (standing with a book bound in rose-coloured cloth in her +hand.) You won't read your husband's book? + +LADY. Not that one. I promised not to. + +MOTHER. You don't want to know the man to whom you've entrusted +your fate? + +LADY. What would be the use? We're all right as we are. + +MOTHER. You make no great demands on life? + +LADY. Why should I? They'd never be fulfilled. + +MOTHER. I don't know whether you were born full of worldly wisdom, +or foolishness. + +LADY. I don't know myself. + +MOTHER. If the sun shines and you've enough to eat, you're content. + +LADY. Yes. And when it goes in, I make the best of it. + +MOTHER. To change the subject: did you know your husband was being +pressed by the courts on account of his debts? + +LADY. Yes. It happens to all writers. + +MOTHER. Is he mad, or a rascal? + +LADY. He's neither. He's no ordinary man; and it's a pity I can +tell him nothing he doesn't know already. That's why we don't speak +much; but he's glad to have me near him; and so am I to be near +him. + +MOTHER. You've reached calm water already? Then it can't be far to +the mill-race! But don't you think you'd have more to talk of, if +you read what he has written? + +LADY. Perhaps. You can leave me the book, if you like. + +MOTHER. Take it and hide it. It'll be a surprise if you can quote +something from his masterpiece. + +LADY (hiding the book in her bag). He's coming. If he's spoken of +he seems to feel it from afar. + +MOTHER. If he could only feel how he makes others suffer--from +afar. (Exit left.) + +(The LADY, alone for an instant, looks at the book and seems taken +aback. She hides it in her bag.) + +STRANGER (entering). Your mother was here? You were speaking of me, +of course. I can almost hear her ill-natured words. They cut the +air and darken the sunshine. I can almost divine the impression of +her body in the atmosphere of the room, and she leaves an odour +like that of a dead snake. + +LADY. You're irritable to-day. + +STRANGER. Fearfully. Some fool has restrung my nerves out of tune, +and plays on them with a horse-hair bow till he sets my teeth on +edge. ... You don't know what that is! There's someone here who's +stronger than I! Someone with a searchlight who shines it at me, +wherever I may be. Do they use the black art in this place? + +LADY. Don't turn your back on the sunlight. Look at this lovely +country; you'll feel calmer. + +STRANGER. I can't bear that poorhouse. It seems to have been built +there solely for me. And a demented woman always stands there +beckoning. + +LADY. Do you think they treat you badly here? + +STRANGER. In a way, no. They feed me with tit-bits, as if I were to +be fattened for the butcher. But I can't eat because they grudge it +me, and I feel the cold rays of their hate. To me it seems there's +an icy wind everywhere, although it's still and hot. And I can hear +that accursed mill. ... + +LADY. It's not grinding now. + +STRANGER. Yes. Grinding ... grinding. + +LADY. Listen. There's no hate here. Pity, at most. + +STRANGER. Another thing. ... Why do people I meet cross themselves? + +LADY. Only because they're used to praying in silence. (Pause.) You +had an unwelcome letter this morning? + +STRANGER. Yes. The kind that makes your hair rise from the scalp, +so that you want to curse at fate. I'm owed money, but can't get +paid. Now the law's being set in motion against me by ... the +guardians of my children, because I've not paid alimony. No one has +ever been in such a dishonourable position. I'm blameless. I could +pay my way; I want to, but am prevented! Not my fault; yet my +shame! It's not in nature. The devil's got a hand in it. + +LADY. Why? + +STRANGER. Why? Why is one born into this world an ignoramus, +knowing nothing of the laws, customs and usage one inadvertently +breaks? And for which one's punished. Why does one grow into a +youth full of high ambition only to be driven into vile actions one +abhors? Why, why? + +LADY (who has secretly been looking at the book: absent-mindedly). +There must be a reason, even if we don't know it. + +STRANGER. If it's to humble one, it's a poor method. It only makes +me more arrogant. Eve! + +LADY. Don't call me that. + +STRANGER (starting). Why not? + +LADY. I don't like it. You'd feel as I do, if I called you Caesar. + +STRANGER. Have we got back to that? + +LADY. To what? + +STRANGER. Did you mention that name for any reason? + +LADY. Caesar? No. But I'm beginning to find things out. + +STRANGER. Very well! Then I may as well fall honourably by my own +hand. I am Caesar, the school-boy, for whose escapade your husband, +the werewolf, was punished. Fate delights in making links for +eternity. A noble sport! (The LADY, uncertain what to do, does not +reply.) Say something! + +LADY. I can't. + +STRANGER. Say that he became a werewolf because, as a child, he +lost his belief in the justice of heaven, owing to the fact that, +though innocent, he was punished for the misdeeds of another. But +if you say so, I shall reply that I suffered ten times as much from +my conscience, and that the spiritual crisis that followed left me +so strengthened that I've never done such a thing again. + +LADY. No. It's not that. + +STRANGER. Then what is it? Do you respect me no longer? + +LADY. It's not that either. + +STRANGER. Then it's to make me feel my shame before you! And it +would be the end of everything between us. + +LADY. No! + +STRANGER. Eve. + +LADY. You rouse evil thoughts. + +STRANGER. You've broken your vow: you've been reading my book! + +LADY. I have. + +STRANGER. Then you've done wrong. + +LADY. My intention was good. + +STRANGER. The results even of your good intentions are terrible! +You've blown me into the air with my own petard. Why must all our +misdeeds come home to roost--both boyish escapades and really evil +action? It's fair enough to reap evil where one has sown it. But +I've never seen a good action get its reward. Never! It's a +disgrace to Him who records all sins, however black or venial. No +man could do it: men would forgive. The gods ... never! + +LADY. Don't say that. Say rather _you_ forgive. + +STRANGER. I'm not small-minded. But what have I forgive you? + +LADY. More than I can say. + +STRANGER. Say it. Perhaps then we'll be quits. + +LADY. He and I used to read the curse of Deutertonomy over you ... +for you'd ruined his life. + +STRANGER. What curse is that? + +LADY. From the fifth book of Moses. The priests chant it in chorus +when the fasts begin. + +STRANGER. I don't remember it. What does it matter--a curse more or +less? + +LADY. In my family those whom we curse, are struck. + +STRANGER. I don't believe it. But I do believe that evil emanates +from this house. May it recoil upon it! That is my prayer! Now, +according to custom, it would be my duty to shoot myself; but I +can't, so long as I have other duties. You see, I can't even die, +and so I've lost my last treasure--what, with reason, I call my +religion. I've heard that man can wrestle with God, and with +success; but not even job could fight against Satan. (Pause.) Let's +speak of you. ... + +LADY. Not now. Later perhaps. Since I've got to know your terrible +book--I've only glanced at it, only read a few lines here and +there--I feel as if I'd eaten of the tree of knowledge. My eyes are +opened and I know what's good and what's evil, as I've never known +before. And now I see how evil you are, and why I am to be called +Eve. She was a mother and brought sin into the world: it was +another mother who brought expiation. The curse of mankind was +called down on us by the first, a blessing by the second. In me you +shall not destroy my whole sex. Perhaps I have a different mission +in your life. We shall see! + +STRANGER. So you've eaten of the tree of knowledge? Farewell. + +LADY. You're going away? + +STRANGER. I can't stay here. + +LADY. Don't go. + +STRANGER. I must. I must clear up everything. I'll take leave of +the old people now. Then I'll come back. I shan't be long. (Exit.) + +LADY (remains motionless, then goes to the door and looks out. She +sinks to her knees). No! He won't come back! + +Curtain. + + +SCENE IX + +CONVENT + +[The refectory of an ancient convent, resembling a simple +whitewashed Romanesque church. There are damp patches on the walls, +looking like strange figures. A long table with bowls; at the end a +desk for the Lector. At the back a door leading to the chapel. +There are lighted candles on the tables. On the wall, left, a +painting representing the Archangel Michael killing the Fiend.] + +[The STRANGER is sitting left, at a refectory table, dressed in the +white clothing of a patient, with a bowl before him. At the table, +right, are sitting: the brown-clad mourners of Scene I. The BEGGAR. +A woman in mourning with two children. A woman who resembles the +Lady, but who is not her and who is crocheting instead of eating. A +Man very like the Doctor, another like the Madman. Others like the +Father, Mother, Brother. Parents of the 'Prodigal Son,' etc. All +are dressed in white, but over this are wearing costumes of +coloured crepe. Their faces are waxen and corpse-like, their whole +appearance queer, their gestures strange. On the rise of the +curtain all are finishing a Paternoster, except the STRANGER.] + +STRANGER (rising and going to the ABBESS, who is standing at a +serving table). Mother. May I speak to you? + +ABBESS (in a black-and-white Augustinian habit). Yes, my son. (They +come forward.) + +STRANGER. First, where am I? + +ABBESS. In a convent called 'St. Saviour.' You were found on the +hills above the ravine, with a cross you'd broken from a calvary +and with which you were threatening someone in the clouds. Indeed, +you thought you could see him. You were feverish and had lost your +foothold. You were picked up, unhurt, beneath a cliff, but in +delirium. You were brought to the hospital and put to bed. Since +then you've spoken wildly, and complained of a pain in your hip, +but no injury could be found. + +STRANGER. What did I speak of? + +ABBESS. You had the usual feverish dreams. You reproached yourself +with all kinds of things, and thought you could see your victims, +as you called them. + +STRANGER. And then? + +ABBESS. Your thoughts often turned to money matters. You wanted to +pay for yourself in the hospital. I tried to calm you by telling +you no payment would be asked: all was done out of charity. ... + +STRANGER. I want no charity. + +ABBESS. It's more blessed to give than to receive; yet a noble +nature can accept and be thankful. + +STRANGER. I want no charity. + +ABBESS. Hm! + +STRANGER. Tell me, why will none of those people sit at the same +table with me? They're getting up ... going. ... + +ABBESS. They seem to fear you. + +STRANGER. Why? + +ABBESS. You look so. ... + +STRANGER. I? But what of them? Are they real? + +ABBESS. If you mean true, they've a terrible reality. It may be +they look strange to you, because you're still feverish. Or there +may be another reason. + +STRANGER. I seem to know them, all of them! I see them as if in a +mirror: they only make as if they were eating. ... Is this some +drama they're performing? Those look like my parents, rather like ... +(Pause.) Hitherto I've feared nothing, because life was useless to +me. ... Now I begin to be afraid. + +ABBESS. If you don't believe them real, I'll ask the Confessor to +introduce you. (She signs to the CONFESSOR who approaches.) + +CONFESSOR (dressed in a black-and-white habit of Dominicans). +Sister! + +ABBESS. Tell the patient who are at that table. + +CONFESSOR. That's soon done. + +STRANGER. Permit a question first. Haven't we met already? + +CONFESSOR. Yes. I sat by your bedside, when you were delirious. At +your desire, I heard your confession. + +STRANGER. What? My confession? + +CONFESSOR. Yes. But I couldn't give you absolution; because it +seemed that what you said was spoken in fever. + +STRANGER. Why? + +CONFESSOR. There was hardly a sin or vice you didn't take upon +yourself--things so hateful you'd have had to undergo strict +penitence before demanding absolution. Now you're yourself again I +can ask whether there are grounds for your self-accusations. + +(The ABBESS leaves them.) + +STRANGER. Have you the right? + +CONFESSOR. No. In truth, no right. (Pause.) But you want to know in +whose company you are! The very best. There, for instance, is a +madman, Caesar, who lost his wits through reading the works of a +certain writer whose notoriety is greater than his fame. There's a +beggar, who won't admit he's a beggar, because he's learnt Latin +and is free. There, a doctor, called the werewolf, whose history's +well known. There, two parents, who grieved themselves to death +over a son who raised his hand against theirs. He must be +responsible for refusing to follow his father's bier and +desecrating his mother's grave. There's his unhappy sister, whom he +drove out into the snow, as he himself recounts, with the best +intentions. Over there's a woman who's been abandoned with her two +children, and there's another doing crochet work. ... All are old +acquaintances. Go and greet them! + +(The STRANGER has turned his back on the company: he now goes to +the table, left, and sits down with his back to them. He raises his +head, sees the picture of the Archangel Michael and lowers his +eyes. The CONFESSOR stands behind the STRANGER. A Catholic Requiem +can be heard from the chapel. The CONFESSOR speaks to the STRANGER +in a low voice while the music goes on.) + + Quantus tremor est futurus + Quando judex est venturus + Cuncta stricte discussurus, + Tuba mirum spargens sonum + Per sepulchra regionum + Coget omnes ante thronum. + Mors stupebit et natura, + Cum resurget creatura + Judicanti responsura + Liber scriptus proferetur + In quo totum continetur + Unde mundus judicetur. + Judex ergo cum sedebit + Quidquid latet apparebit + Nil inultum remanebit. + +(He goes to the desk by the table, right, and opens his breviary. +The music ceases.) + +We will continue the reading. ... 'But if thou wilt not hearken +unto the voice of the Lord thy God all these curses shall overtake +thee. Cursed shalt thou be in the city, and cursed shalt thou be in +the field; cursed shalt thou be when thou comest in, and cursed +when thou goest out.' + +OMNES (in a low voice). Cursed! + +CONFESSOR. 'The Lord shall send upon thee vexation and rebuke in +all that thou settest thy hand for to do, until thou be destroyed, +and until thou perish quickly, because of the wickedness of thy +doings, whereby thou hast forsaken me.' + +OMNES (loudly). Cursed! + +CONFESSOR. 'The Lord shall cause thee to be smitten before thine +enemies: thou shalt go out one way against them, and flee seven +ways before them, and shalt be moved into all the kingdoms of the +earth. And thy carcase shall be meat unto all fowls of the air, and +unto the beasts of the earth, and no man shall fray them away. The +Lord will smite thee with the botch of Egypt, the scab and the +itch, with madness and blindness, that thou shalt grope at noonday, +as the blind gropeth in darkness. Thou shalt not prosper in thy +ways, and thou shalt be only oppressed and spoiled evermore, and no +man shall save thee. Thou shalt betroth a wife, and another man +shall lie with her: thou shalt build an house, and thou shalt not +dwell therein: thou shalt plant a vineyard, and shalt not gather +the grapes thereof. Thy sons and thy daughters shall be given unto +another people, and thine eyes fail with longing for them; and +there shall be no might in thy hand. And thou shalt find no ease on +earth, neither shall the sole of thy foot have rest: the Lord shall +give thee a trembling heart, and failing of eyes and sorrow of +mind. And thy life shall hang in doubt before thee; and thou shalt +fear day and night. In the morning thou shalt say, would God it +were even! And at even thou shalt say, would God it were morning! +And because thou servedst not the Lord thy God when thou livedst in +security, thou shalt serve him in hunger, in thirst, in nakedness +and in want; and He shall put a yoke of iron upon thy neck, until +He have destroyed thee!' + +OMNES. Amen! + +(The CONFESSOR has read the above loudly and rapidly, without +turning to the STRANGER. All those present, except the LADY, who is +working, have been listening and have joined in the curse, though +they have feigned not to notice the STRANGER, who has remained with +his back to them, sunk in himself. The STRANGER now rises as if to +go. The CONFESSOR goes towards him.) + +STRANGER. What was that? + +CONFESSOR. The Book of Deuteronomy. + +STRANGER. Of course. But I seem to remember blessings in it, too. + +CONFESSOR. Yes, for those who keep His commandments. + +STRANGER. Hm. ... I can't deny that, for a moment, I felt shaken. +Are they temptations to be resisted, or warnings to be obeyed? +(Pause.) Anyhow I'm certain now that I have fever. I must go to a +real doctor. + +CONFESSOR. See he _is_ the right one! + +STRANGER. Of course! + +CONFESSOR. Who can heal 'delightful scruples of conscience'! + +ABBESS. Should you need charity again, you now know where to find +it. + +STRANGER. No. I do not. + +ABBESS (in a low voice). Then I'll tell you. In a 'rose' room, near +a certain running stream. + +STRANGER. That's the truth! In a 'rose' room. Wait; how long have I +been here? + +ABBESS. Three months to-day. + +STRANGER. Three months! Have I been sleeping? Or where have I been? +(Looking out of the window.) It's autumn. The trees are bare; the +clouds look cold. Now it's coming back to me! Can you hear a mill +grinding? The sound of a horn? The rushing of a river? A wood +whispering--and a woman weeping? You're right. Only there can +charity be found. Farewell. (Exit.) + +CONFESSOR (to the Abbess). The fool! The fool! + +Curtain. + + +SCENE X + +THE 'ROSE' ROOM + +[The curtains have been taken down. The windows gape into the +darkness outside. The furniture has been covered in brown +loose-covers and pulled forward. The flowers have been taken away, +and the large black stove lit. The MOTHER is standing ironing white +curtains by the light of a single lamp. There is a knock at the +door.] + +MOTHER. Come in! + +STRANGER (doing so). Where's my wife? + +MOTHER. Where do you come from? + +STRANGER. I think, from hell. But where's my wife? + +MOTHER. Which of them do you mean? + +STRANGER. The question's justified. Everything is, except to me. + +MOTHER. There may be a reason: I'm glad you've seen it. Where have +you been? + +STRANGER. Whether in a poorhouse, a madhouse or a hospital, I don't +know. I should like to think it all a feverish dream. I've been +ill: I lost my memory and can't believe three months have passed. +But where's my wife? + +MOTHER. I ought to ask you that. When you deserted her, she went +away--to look for you. Whether she's tired of looking, I can't say. + +STRANGER. Something's amiss here. Where's the Old Man? + +MOTHER. Where there's no more suffering. + +STRANGER. You mean he's dead? + +MOTHER. Yes. He's dead. + +STRANGER. You say it as if you wanted to add him to my victims. + +MOTHER. Perhaps I'm right to do so. + +STRANGER. He didn't look sensitive: he was capable of steady +hatred. + +MOTHER. No. He hated only what was evil, in himself and others. + +STRANGER. So I'm wrong there, too! (Pause.) + +MOTHER. What do you want here? + +STRANGER. Charity! + +MOTHER. At last! How was it at the hospital! Sit down and tell me. + +STRANGER (sitting). I don't want to think of it. I don't even know +if it _was_ a hospital. + +MOTHER. Strange. Tell me what happened after you left here. + +STRANGER. I fell in the mountains, hurt my hip and lost +consciousness. If you'll speak kindly to me you shall know more. + +MOTHER. I will. + +STRANGER. When I woke I was in a red iron bedstead. Three men were +pulling a cord that ran through two blocks. Every time they pulled +I felt I grew two feet taller. ... + +MOTHER. They were putting in your hip. + +STRANGER. I hadn't thought of that. Then ... I lay watching my past +life unroll before me like a panorama, through childhood, youth. ... +And when the roll was finished it began again. All the time I heard +a mill grinding. ... I can hear it still. Yes, here too! + +MOTHER. Those were not pleasant visions. + +STRANGER. No. At last I came to the conclusion ... that I was a +thoroughgoing scamp. + +MOTHER. Why call yourself that? + +STRANGER. I know you'd like to hear me say I was a scoundrel. But +that would seem to me like boasting. It would imply a certainty +about myself to which I've not attained. + +MOTHER. You're still in doubt? + +STRANGER. Of a great deal. But I've begun to have an inkling. + +MOTHER. That. ...? + +STRANGER. That there are forces which, till now, I've not believed in. + +MOTHER. You've come to see that neither you, nor any other man, +directs your destiny? + +STRANGER. I have. + +MOTHER. Then you've already gone part of the way. + +STRANGER. But I myself have changed. I'm ruined; for I've lost all +aptitude for writing. And I can't sleep at night. + +MOTHER. Indeed! + +STRANGER. What are called nightmares stop me. Last and worst: I +daren't die; for I'm no longer sure my miseries will end, with _my_ +end. + +MOTHER. Oh! + +STRANGER. Even worse: I've grown so to loathe myself that I'd +escape from myself, if I knew how. If I were a Christian, I +couldn't obey the first commandment, to love my neighbour as +myself, for I should have to hate him as I hate myself. It's true +that I'm a scamp. I've always suspected it; and because I never +wanted life to fool me, I've observed 'others' carefully. When I +saw they were no better than I, I resented their trying to browbeat +me. + +MOTHER. You've been wrong to think it a matter between you and +others. You have to deal with Him. + +STRANGER. With whom? + +MOTHER. The Invisible One, who guides your destiny. + +STRANGER. Would I could see Him. + +MOTHER. It would be your death. + +STRANGER. Oh no! + +MOTHER. Where do you get this devilish spirit of rebellion? If you +won't bow your neck like the rest, you must be broken like a reed. + +STRANGER. I don't know where this fearful stubbornness comes from. +It's true an unpaid bill can make me tremble; but if I were to +climb Mount Sinai and face the Eternal One, I should not cover my +face. + +MOTHER. Jesus and Mary! Don't say such things. You'll make me think +you're a child of the Devil. + +STRANGER. Here that seems the general opinion. But I've heard that +those who serve the Evil One get honours, goods and gold as their +reward. Gold especially. Do you think me suspect? + +MOTHER. You'll bring a curse on my house. + +STRANGER. Then I'll leave it. + +MOTHER. And go into the night. Where? + +STRANGER. To seek the only one that I don't hate. + +MOTHER. Are you sure she'll receive you? + +STRANGER. Quite sure. + +MOTHER. I'm not. + +STRANGER. I am. + +MOTHER. Then I must raise your doubts. + +STRANGER. You can't. + +MOTHER. Yes, I can. + +STRANGER. It's a lie. + +MOTHER. We're no longer speaking kindly. We must stop. Can you +sleep in the attic? + +STRANGER. I can't sleep anywhere. + +MOTHER. Still, I'll say good-night to you, whether you think I mean +it, or not. + +STRANGER. You're sure there are no rats in the attic? I don't fear +ghosts, but rats aren't pleasant. + +MOTHER. I'm glad you don't fear ghosts, for no one's slept a whole +night there ... whatever the cause may be. + +STRANGER (after a moment's hesitation). Never have I met a more +wicked woman than you. The reason is: you have religion. + +MOTHER. Good-night! + +Curtain. + + +SCENE XI + +IN THE KITCHEN + +[It is dark, but the moon outside throws moving shadows of the +window lattices on to the floor, as the storm clouds race by. In +the corner, right, under the crucifix, where the OLD MAN used to +sit, a hunting horn, a gun and a game bag hang on the wall. On the +table a stuffed bird of prey. As the windows are open the curtains +are flapping in the wind; and kitchen cloths, aprons and towels, +that are hung on a line by the hearth, move in the wind, whose +sighing can be heard. In the distance the noise of a waterfall. +There is an occasional tapping on the wooden floor.] + +STRANGER (entering, half-dressed, a lamp in his hand). Is anyone +here? No. (He comes forward with a light, which makes the play of +shadow less marked.) What's moving on the floor? Is anyone here? +(He goes to the table, sees the stuffed bird and stands riveted to +the spot.) God! + +MOTHER (coming in with a lamp). Still up? + +STRANGER. I couldn't sleep. + +MOTHER (gently). Why not, my son? + +STRANGER. I heard someone above me. + +MOTHER. Impossible. There's nothing over the attic. + +STRANGER. That's why I was uneasy! What's moving on the floor like +snakes? + +MOTHER. Moonbeams. + +STRANGER. Yes. Moonbeams. That's a stuffed bird. And those are +cloths. Everything's natural; that's what makes me uneasy. Who was +knocking during the night? Was anyone locked out? + +MOTHER. It was a horse in the stable. + +STRANGER. Why should it make that noise? + +MOTHER. Some animals have nightmares. + +STRANGER. What are nightmares? + +MOTHER. Who knows? + +STRANGER. May I sit down? + +MOTHER. Do. I want to speak seriously to you. I was malicious last +night; you must forgive me. It's because of that I need religion; +just as I need the penitential garment and the stone floor. To +spare you, I'll tell you what nightmares are to me. My bad +conscience! Whether I punish myself or another punishes me, I don't +know. I don't permit myself to ask. (Pause.) Now tell me what you +saw in your room. + +STRANGER. I hardly know. Nothing. When I went in I felt as if +someone were there. Then I went to bed. But someone started pacing +up and down above me with a heavy tread. Do you believe in ghosts? + +MOTHER. My religion won't allow me to. But I believe our sense of +right and wrong will find a way to punish us. + +STRANGER. Soon I felt cold air on my breast--it reached my heart +and forced me to get up. + +MOTHER. And then? + +STRANGER. To stand and watch the whole panorama of my life unroll +before me. I saw everything--that was the worst of it. + +MOTHER. I know. I've been through it. There's no name for the +malady, and only one cure. + +STRANGER. What is it? + +MOTHER. You know what children do when they've done wrong? + +STRANGER. What? + +MOTHER. First ask forgiveness! + +STRANGER. And then? + +MOTHER. Try to make amends. + +STRANGER. Isn't it enough to suffer according to one's deserts? + +MOTHER. No. That's revenge. + +STRANGER. Then what must one do? + +MOTHER. Can you mend a life you've destroyed? Undo a bad action? + +STRANGER. Truly, no. But I was forced into it! Forced to take, for +no one gave me the right. Accursed be He who forced me! (Putting +his hand to his heart.) Ah! He's here, in this room. He's plucking +out my heart! + +MOTHER. Then bow your head. + +STRANGER. I cannot. + +MOTHER. Down on your knees. + +STRANGER. I will not. + +MOTHER. Christ have mercy! Lord have mercy on you! On your knees +before Him who was crucified! Only He can wipe out what's been +done. + +STRANGER. Not before Him! If I were forced, I'll recant ... +afterwards. + +MOTHER. On your knees, my son! + +STRANGER. I cannot bow the knee. I cannot. Help me, God Eternal. +(Pause.) + +MOTHER (after a hasty prayer). Do you feel better? + +STRANGER. Yes. ... It was not death. It was annihilation! + +MOTHER. The annihilation of the Divine. We call it spiritual death. + +STRANGER. I see. (Without irony.) I begin to understand. + +MOTHER. My son! You have left Jerusalem and are on the road to +Damascus. Go back the same way you came. Erect a cross at every +station, and stay at the seventh. For you, there are not fourteen, +as for Him. + +STRANGER. You speak in riddles. + +MOTHER. Then go your way. Search out those to whom you have +something to say. First, your wife. + +STRANGER. Where is she? + +MOTHER. You must find her. On your way don't forget to call on him +you named the werewolf. + +STRANGER. Never! + +MOTHER. You'd have said that, as you came here. As you know, I +expected your coming. + +STRANGER. Why? + +MOTHER. For no one reason. + +STRANGER. Just as I saw this kitchen ... in a trance. ... + +MOTHER. That's why I now regret trying to separate you and +Ingeborg. Go and search for her. If you find her, well and good. If +not, perhaps that too has been ordained. (Pause.) Dawn's now at +hand. Morning has come and the night has passed. + +STRANGER. Such a night! + +MOTHER. You'll remember it. + +STRANGER. Not all of it ... yet something. + +MOTHER (looking out of the window, as if to herself). Lovely +morning star--how far from heaven have you fallen! + +STRANGER (after a pause). Have you noticed that, before the sun +rises, a feeling of awe takes hold of mankind? Are we children of +darkness, that we tremble before the light? + +MOTHER. Will you never be tired of questioning? + +STRANGER. Never. Because I yearn for light. + +MOTHER. Go then, and search. And peace be with you! + + +SCENE XII + +IN THE RAVINE + +[The same landscape as before, but in autumn colouring. The trees +have lost their leaves. Work is going on at the smithy and the +mill. The SMITH stands, left, in the doorway; the MILLER'S wife, +right. The LADY dressed in a jacket with a hat of patent leather; +but she is in mourning. The STRANGER is in Bavarian alpine kit: +short jacket of rough material, knickers, heavy boots and +alpenstock, green hat with heath-cock feather. Over this he wears a +brown cloak with a cape and hood.] + +LADY (entering tired and dispirited). Did a man pass here in a long +cloak, with a green hat? (The SMITH and the MILLER'S WIFE shake +their heads.) Can I lodge here for the night? (The SMITH and the +MILLER'S WIFE again shake their heads: to the SMITH.) May I stand +in the doorway for a moment and warm myself? (The SMITH pushes her +away.) God reward you according to your deserts! + +(Exit. She reappears on the footbridge, and exit once more.) + +STRANGER (entering). Has a lady in a coat and skirt crossed the +brook? (The SMITH and MILLER'S WIFE shake their heads.) Will you +give me some bread? I'll pay for it. (The MILLER'S WIFE refuses the +money.) No charity! + +ECHO (imitating his voice from afar). Charity. + +(The SMITH and the MILLER'S WIFE laugh so loudly and so long that, +at length, ECHO replies.) + +STRANGER. Good! An eye for an eye--a tooth for a tooth. It helps to +lighten my conscience! (He enters the ravine.) + + +SCENE XIII + +ON THE ROAD + +[The same landscape as before; but autumn. The BEGGAR is sitting +outside a chapel with a lime twig and a bird cage, in which is a +starling. The STRANGER enters wearing the same clothes as in the +preceding scene.] + +STRANGER. Beggar! Have you seen a lady in a coat and skirt pass +this way? + +BEGGAR. I've seen five hundred. But, seriously, I must ask you not +to call me beggar now. I've found work! + +STRANGER. Oh! So it's you! + +BEGGAR. Ille ego qui quondam. ... + +STRANGER. What kind of work have you? + +BEGGAR. I've a starling, that whistles and sings. + +STRANGER. You mean, _he_ does the work? + +BEGGAR. Yes. I'm my own master now. + +STRANGER. Do you catch birds? + +BEGGAR. No. The lime twig's merely for appearances. + +STRANGER. So you still cling to such things? + +BEGGAR. What else should I cling to? What's within us is nothing +but pure ... nonsense. + +STRANGER. Is that the final conclusion of your whole philosophy of +life? + +BEGGAR. My complete metaphysic. The view mad be rather out of date, +but ... + +STRANGER. Can you be serious for a moment? Tell me about your past. + +BEGGAR. Why unravel that old skein? Twist it up rather. Twist it +up. Do you think I'm always so merry? Only when I meet you: you're +so damnably funny! + +STRANGER. How can you laugh, with a wrecked life behind you? + +BEGGAR. Now he's getting personal! (Pause.) If you can't laugh at +adversity, not even that of others, you're begging of life itself. +Listen! If you follow this wheel track you'll come, at last, to the +ocean, and there the path will stop. If you sit down there and +rest, you'll begin to take another view of things. Here there are +so many accidents, religious themes, disagreeable memories that +hinder thought as it flies to the 'rose' room. Only follow the +track! If it's muddy here and there, spread your wings and flutter. +And talking of fluttering: I once heard a bird that sang of +Polycrates and his ring; how he'd become possessed of all the +marvels of this world, but didn't know what to do with them. So he +sent tidings east and west of the great Nothing he'd helped to +fashion from the empty universe. I wouldn't assert you were the +man, unless I believed it so firmly I could take my oath on it. +Once I asked you whether you knew who I was, and you said it didn't +interest you. In return I offered you my friendship, but you +refused it rudely. However, I'm not sensitive or resentful, so I'll +give you good advice on your way. Follow the track! + +STRANGER (avoiding him). You don't deceive me. + +BEGGAR. You believe nothing but evil. That's why you get nothing +but evil. Try to believe what is good. Try! + +STRANGER. I will. But if I'm deceived, I've the right to. ... + +BEGGAR. You've no right to do that. + +STRANGER (as if to himself ). Who is it reads my secret thoughts, +turns my soul inside out, and pursues me? Why do you persecute me? + +BEGGAR. Saul! Saul! Why persecutest thou Me? + +(The STRANGER goes out with a gesture of horror. The chord of the +funeral march is heard again. The LADY enters.) + +LADY. Have you seen a man pass this way in a long cloak, with a +green hat? + +BEGGAR. There was a poor devil here, who hobbled off. ... + +LADY. The man I'm searching for's not lame. + +BEGGAR. Nor was he. It seems he'd hurt his hip; and that made him +walk unsteadily. I mustn't be malicious. Look here in the mud. + +LADY. Where? + +BEGGAR (pointing). There! At that rut. In it you can see the +impression of a boot, firmly planted. ... + +LADY (looking at the impression). It's he! His heavy tread. ... Can +I catch him up? + +BEGGAR. Follow the track! + +LADY (taking his hand and kissing it). Thank you, my friend. (Exit.) + + +SCENE XIV + +BY THE SEA + +[The same landscape as before, but now winter. The sea is dark +blue, and on the horizon great clouds take on the shapes of huge +heads. In the distance three bare masts of a wrecked ship, that +look like three white crosses. The table and seat are still under +the tree, but the chairs have been removed. There is snow on the +ground. From time to time a bell-buoy can be heard. The STRANGER +comes in from the left, stops a moment and looks out to sea, then +goes out, right, behind the cottage. The LADY enters, left, and +appears to be following the STRANGER'S footsteps on the snow; she +exits in front of the cottage, right. The STRANGER re-enters, +right, notices the footprints of the LADY, pauses, and looks back, +right. The LADY re-enters, throws herself into his arms, but +recoils.] + +LADY. You thrust me away. + +STRANGER. No. It seems there's someone between us. + +LADY. Indeed there is! (Pause.) What a meeting! + +STRANGER. Yes. It's winter; as you see. + +LADY. I can feel the cold coming from you. + +STRANGER. I got frozen in the mountains. + +LADY. Do you think the spring will ever come? + +STRANGER. Not to us! We've been driven from the garden, and must +wander over stones and thistles. And when our hands and feet are +bruised, we feel we must rub salt in the wounds of the ... other +one. And then the mill starts grinding. It'll never stop; for +there's always water. + +LADY. No doubt what you say is true. + +STRANGER. But I'll not yield to the inevitable. Rather than that we +should lacerate each other I'll gash myself as a sacrifice to the +gods. I'll take the blame upon me; declare it was I who taught you +to break your chains. I who tempted you! Then you can lay all the +blame on me: for what I did, and what happened after. + +LADY. You couldn't bear it. + +STRANGER. Yes, I could. There are moments when I feel as if I bore +all the sin and sorrow, all the filth and shame of the whole world. +There are moments when I believe we are condemned to sin and do bad +actions as a punishment! (Pause.) Not long ago I lay sick of a +fever, and amidst all that happened to me, I dreamed that I saw a +crucifix without the Crucified. And when I asked the Dominican--for +there was a Dominican among many others--what it could mean, he +said: 'You will not allow Him to suffer for you. Suffer then +yourself!' That's why mankind have grown so conscious of their own +sufferings. + +LADY. And why consciences grow so heavy, if there's no one to help +to bear the burden. + +STRANGER. Have you also come to think so? + +LADY. Not yet. But I'm on the way. + +STRANGER. Put your hand in mine. From here let us go on together. + +LADY. Where? + +STRANGER. Back! The same way we came. Are you weary? + +LADY. Now no longer. + +STRANGER. Several times I sank exhausted. But I met a strange +beggar--perhaps you remember him: he was thought to be like me. And +he begged me, as an experiment, to believe his good intentions. I +did believe--as an experiment--and . ... + +LADY. Well? + +STRANGER. It went well with me. And since then I feel I've strength +to go on my way. ... + +LADY. Let's go together! + +STRANGER (turning to the sea). Yes. It's growing dark and the +clouds are gathering. + +LADY. Don't look at the clouds. + +STRANGER. And below there? What's that? + +LADY. Only a wreck. + +STRANGER (whispering). Three crosses! What new Golgotha awaits us? + +LADY. They're white ones. That means good fortune. + +STRANGER. Can good fortune ever come to us? + +LADY. Yes. But not yet. + +STRANGER. Let's go! + + +SCENE XV + +ROOM IN AN HOTEL + +[The room is as before. The LADY is sitting by the side of the +STRANGER, crocheting.] + +LADY. Do say something. + +STRANGER. I've nothing but unpleasant things to say, since we came +here. + +LADY. Why were you so anxious to have this terrible room? + +STRANGER. I don't know. It was the last one I wanted. I began to +long for it, in order to suffer. + +LADY. And are you suffering? + +STRANGER. Yes. I can no longer listen to singing, or look at +anything beautiful. During the day I hear the mill and see that +great panorama now expanding to embrace the universe. ... And, at +night ... + +LADY. Why did you cry out in your sleep? + +STRANGER. I was dreaming. + +LADY. A real dream? + +STRANGER. Terribly real. But you see what a curse is on me. I feel +I must describe it, and to no one else but you. Yet I daren't tell +you, for it would be rattling at the door of the locked chamber. ... + +LADY. The past! + +STRANGER. Yes. + +LADY (simply). It's foolish to have any such secret place. + +STRANGER. Yes. (Pause.) + +LADY. And now tell me! + +STRANGER. I'm afraid I must. I dreamed your first husband was +married to my first wife. + +LADY. Only you could have thought of such a thing! + +STRANGER. I wish it were so. (Pause.) I saw how he ill-treated my +children. (Getting up.) I put my hands to his throat. ... I can't +go on. ... But I shall never rest till I know the truth. And to +know it, I must go to him in his own house. + +LADY. It's come to that? + +STRANGER. It's been coming for some time. Nothing can now prevent +it. I must see him. + +LADY. But if he won't receive you? + +STRANGER. I'll go as a patient, and tell him of my sickness. ... + +LADY (frightened). Don't do that! + +STRANGER. You think he might be tempted to shut me up as mad! I +must risk it. I want to risk everything--life, freedom, welfare. I +need an emotional shock, strong enough to bring myself into the +light of day. I demand this torture, that my punishment may be in +just proportion to my sin, so that I shall not be forced to drag +myself along under the burden of my guilt. So down into the snake +pit, as soon as may be! + +LADY. Could I come with you? + +STRANGER. There's no need. My sufferings will be enough for both. + +LADY. Then I'll call you my deliverer. And the curse I once laid on +you will turn into a blessing. Look! It's spring once more. + +STRANGER. So I see. The Christmas rose there has begun to wither. + +LADY. But don't you feel spring in the air? + +STRANGER. The cold within isn't so great. + +LADY. Perhaps the werewolf will heal you altogether. + +STRANGER. We shall see. Perhaps he's not so dangerous, after all. + +LADY. He's not so cruel as you. + +STRANGER. But my dream. ... + +LADY. Let's hope it was only a dream. Now my wool's finished; and +with it, my useless work. It's grown soiled in the making. + +STRANGER. It can be washed. + +LADY. Or dyed. + +STRANGER. Rose red. + +LADY. Never! + +STRANGER. It's like a roll of manuscript. + +LADY. With our story on it. + +STRANGER. In the filth of the roads, in tears and in blood. + +LADY. But the story's nearly done. Go and write the last chapter. + +STRANGER. Then we'll meet at the seventh station. Where we began! + + +SCENE XVI + +THE DOCTOR'S HOUSE + +[The scene is more or less as before. But half the wood-pile has +been taken away. On a seat near the verandah surgical instruments, +knives, saws, forceps, etc. The DOCTOR is engaged in cleaning +these.] + +SISTER (coming from the verandah). A patient to see you. + +DOCTOR. Do you know who it is? + +SISTER. I've not seen him. Here's his card. + +DOCTOR (reading it). This outdoes everything! + +SISTER. Is it he? + +DOCTOR. Yes. Courage I respect; but this is cynicism. A kind of +challenge. Still, let him come in. + +SISTER. Are you serious? + +DOCTOR. Perfectly. But, if you care to talk to him a little, in +that straightforward way of yours. ... + +SISTER. I'd like to. + +DOCTOR. Very well. Do the heavy work, and leave the final polish to +me. + +SISTER. You can trust me. I'll tell him everything your kindness +forbids you to say. + +DOCTOR. Enough of my kindness! Make haste, or I'll get impatient. +Shut the doors. (His SISTER goes out.) What are you doing at that +dustbin, Caesar? (CAESAR comes in.) Listen, Caesar, if your enemy +were to come and lay his head in your lap, what would you do? + +CAESAR. Cut it off! + +DOCTOR. That's not what I've taught you. + +CAESAR. No; you said, heap coals of fire on it. But I think that's +a shame. + +DOCTOR. I think so, too; it's more cruel and more cunning. (Pause.) +Isn't it better to take some revenge? It heartens the other person, +lifts the burden off him. + +CAESAR. As you know more about it than I, why ask? + +DOCTOR. Quiet! I'm not speaking to you. (Pause.) Very well. First +cut off his head, and then. ... We'll see. + +CAESAR. It all depends on how he behaves. + +DOCTOR. Yes. On how he behaves. Quiet. Get along. + +(The STRANGER comes from the verandah: he seems excited but his +manner betrays a certain resignation. CAESAR has gone out.) + +STRANGER. You're surprised to see me here? + +DOCTOR (seriously). I've long given up being surprised. But I see I +must begin again. + +STRANGER. Will you permit me to speak to you? + +DOCTOR. About anything decent people may discuss. Are you ill? + +STRANGER (hesitating). Yes. + +DOCTOR. Why did you come to me--of all people? + +STRANGER. You must guess! + +DOCTOR. I refuse to. (Pause.) What do you complain of? + +STRANGER (with uncertainty). Sleeplessness. + +DOCTOR. That's not a disease, but a symptom. Have you already seen +a doctor? + +STRANGER. I've been lying ill in an ... institution. I was +feverish. I've a strange malady. + +DOCTOR. What was so strange about it? + +STRANGER. May I ask this? Can one go about as usual; and yet be +delirious? + +DOCTOR. If you're mad; not otherwise. (The STRANGER lets up, but +then sits down again.) What was the hospital called? + +STRANGER. St. Saviour. + +DOCTOR. That's not a hospital. + +STRANGER. A convent, then. + +DOCTOR. No. It's an asylum. (The STRANGER gets up, the DOCTOR does +so, too, and calls.) Sister! Shut the front door. And the gate +leading to the road. (To the STRANGER.) Won't you sit down? I have +to keep the doors here locked. There are so many tramps. + +STRANGER (calms himself). Be frank with me: do you think me ... +insane? + +DOCTOR. No one ever gets a frank answer to that question, as you +know. And no one who suffers in that way ever believes what he's +told. So my opinion must be a matter of indifference to you. +(Pause.) But if it's your soul, go to a spiritual healer. + +STRANGER. Could you take his place for a moment? + +DOCTOR. I haven't the vocation. + +STRANGER. But ... + +DOCTOR (interrupting). Or the time. We're getting ready for a +wedding here! + +STRANGER. I dreamed it! + +DOCTOR. It may ease your mind to know that I've consoled myself, as +it's called. You may be pleased, it would be natural ... but I see, +on the contrary, it makes you suffer more. There must be a reason. +Why, should you be upset at my marrying a widow? + +STRANGER. With two children? + +DOCTOR. Two children! Now we have it! A damnable supposition worthy +of you. If there were a hell, you should be hell's overseer, for +your skill in finding means of punishment exceeds my wildest +inventions. Yet I'm called a werewolf! + +STRANGER. It might happen that ... + +DOCTOR (cutting him short). For a long time, I hated you, because +by an unforgiveable action you cheated me of my good name. But when +I grew older and wiser I saw that, although the punishment wasn't +earned, I deserved it for other things that had never been +discovered. Besides, you were a boy with enough conscience to be +able to punish yourself. So you need worry no more about the whole +thing. Is that what you wanted to speak of? + +STRANGER. Yes. + +DOCTOR. Then you'll be content, if I let you go? (The STRANGER is +about to ask a question.) Did you think I'd shut you up? Or cut you +in pieces with those instruments? Kill you? 'Perhaps such poor +devils ought to be put out of their misery!' (The STRANGER looks at +his watch.) You can still catch the boat. + +STRANGER. Will you give me your hand? + +DOCTOR. Impossible. And what is the use of my forgiving you, if you +lack the strength to forgive yourself? (Pause.) Some things can +only be cured by making them undone. So this never can be. + +STRANGER. St. Saviour ... + +DOCTOR. Helped you. You challenged destiny and were broken. There's +no shame in losing such a fight. I did the same; but, as you see, +I've got rid of my woodpile. I want no thunder in my home. And I +shall play no more with the lightning. + +STRANGER. One station more, and I shall reach my goal. + +DOCTOR. You'll never reach your goal. Farewell! + +STRANGER. Farewell! + + +SCENE XVII + +A STREET CORNER + +[The same as Scene I. The STRANGER is sitting on the seat beneath +the tree, drawing in the sand.] + +LADY (entering). What are you doing? + +STRANGER. Writing in the sand ... still. + +LADY. Can you hear singing? + +STRANGER (pointing to the church). Yes. But from there! I've been +unjust to someone, unwittingly. + +LADY. I think our wanderings must be over, now we've come back here. + +STRANGER. Where we began ... at the street corner, between the inn, +the church and the post office. By the way ... isn't there a +registered letter for me there, that I never fetched? + +LADY. Yes. Because there was nothing but unpleasantness in it. + +STRANGER. Or legal matters. (Striking his forehead.) Then that's +the explanation. + +LADY. Fetch it then. In the belief that what it contains is good. + +STRANGER (ironically). Good! + +LADY. Believe it. Imagine it! + +STRANGER (going to the post office). I'll make the attempt. + +(The LADY waits on the pavement. The STRANGER comes back with a +letter.) + +LADY. Well? + +STRANGER. I feel ashamed of myself. It's the money. + +LADY. You see! All these sufferings, all these tears ... in vain! + +STRANGER. Not in vain! It looks like spite, what happens here, but +it's not that. I wronged the Invisible when I mistook ... + +LADY. Enough! No accusations. + +STRANGER. No. It was my own stupidity or wickedness. I didn't want +to be made a fool of by life. That's why I was! It was the elves ... + +LADY. Who made the change in you. Come. Let's go. + +STRANGER. And hide ourselves and our misery in the mountains. + +LADY. Yes. The mountains will hide us! (Pause.) But first I must go +and light a candle to my good Saint Elizabeth. Come. (The STRANGER +shakes his head.) Come! + +STRANGER. Very well. I'll go through that way. But I can't stay. + +LADY. How can you tell? Come. In there you shall hear new songs. + +(The STRANGER follows her to the door of the church.) + +STRANGER. It may be! + +LADY. Come! + +THE END. + + + + + + + +PART II + + + +CHARACTERS + +THE STRANGER +THE LADY +THE MOTHER +THE FATHER +THE CONFESSOR +THE DOCTOR +CAESAR + +less important figures +MAID +PROFESSOR +RAGGED PERSON +ANOTHER RAGGED PERSON +FIRST WOMAN +SECOND WOMAN +WAITRESS +POLICEMAN + + +SCENES + +ACT I Outside the House + +ACT II SCENE I Laboratory + SCENE II The 'Rose' Room + +ACT III SCENE I The Banqueting Hall + SCENE II A Prison Cell + SCENE III The 'Rose' Room + +ACT IV SCENE I The Banqueting Hall + SCENE II In a Ravine + SCENE III The 'Rose' Room + + +ACT I + +OUTSIDE THE HOUSE + +[On the right a terrace, on which the house stands. Below it a road +runs towards the back, where there is a thick pine wood with +heights beyond, whose outlines intersect. On the left there is a +suggestion of a river bank, but the river itself cannot be seen. +The house is white and has small, mullioned windows with iron bars. +On the wall vines and climbing roses. In front of the house, on the +terrace, a well; at the end of the terrace pumpkin plants, whose +large yellow flowers hang dozen over the edge. Fruit trees are +planted along the road, and a memorial cross can be seen erected at +a spot where an accident occurred. Steps lead down from the terrace +to the road, and there are flower-pots on the balustrade. In front +of the steps there is a seat. The road reaches the foreground from +the right, curving past the terrace, which projects like a +promontory, and then loses itself in the background. Strong +sunlight from the left. The MOTHER is sitting on the seat below the +steps. The DOMINICAN is standing in front of her.] + +DOMINICAN [Note: The same character as the CONFESSOR and BEGGAR.]. +You called me to discuss a family matter of importance to you. Tell +me what it is. + +MOTHER. Father, life has treated me hardly. I don't know what I've +done to be so frowned upon by Providence. + +DOMINICAN. It's a mark of favour to be tried by the Eternal One, +and triumph awaits the steadfast. + +MOTHER. That's what I've often said to myself; but there are limits +to the suffering one can bear. ... + +DOMINICAN. There are no limits. Suff'ering's as boundless as grace. + +MOTHER. First my husband leaves me for another woman. + +DOMINICAN. Then let him go. He'll come crawling back again on his +bare knees! + +MOTHER. And as you know, Father, my only daughter was married to a +doctor. But she left him and came home with a stranger, whom she +presented to me as her new husband. + +DOMINICAN. That's not easy to understand. Divorce isn't recognised +by our religion. + +MOTHER. No. But they'd crossed the frontier, to a land where there +are other laws. He's an Old Catholic, and he found a priest to +marry them. + +DOMINICAN. That's no real marriage, and can't be dissolved because +it never existed. But it can be nullified. Who is your present +son-in-law? + +MOTHER. Truly, I wish I knew! One thing I do know, and that's +enough to fill my cup of sorrow. He's been divorced and his wife +and children live in wretched circumstances. + +DOMINICAN. A difficult case. But we'll find a way to put it right. +What does he do? + +MOTHER. He's a writer; said to be famous at home. + +DOMINICAN. Godless, too, I suppose? + +MOTHER. Yes. At least he used to be; but since his second marriage +he's not known a happy hour. Fate, as he calls it, seized him with +an iron hand and drove him here in the shape of a ragged beggar. +Ill-fortune struck him blow after blow, so that I pitied him at the +very moment he fled from here. Then he wandered in the woods and, +later, lay out in the fields where he fell, till he was found by +merciful folk and taken to a convent. There he lay ill for three +months, without our knowing where he was. + +DOMINICAN. Wait! Last year a man was brought to the Convent of St. +Saviour, where I'm Confessor, under the circumstances you describe. +Whilst he was feverish he opened his heart to me, and there was +scarcely a sin of which he didn't confess his guilt. But when he +came to himself again, he said he remembered nothing. So to prove +him in heart and reins I used the secret apostolic powers that are +given us; and, as a trial, employed the lesser curse. For when a +crime's been done in secret, the curse of Deuteronomy is read over +the suspected man. If he's innocent, he goes his way unscathed. But +if he's struck by it, then, as Paul relates, 'he is delivered unto +Satan for the destruction of the flesh, that his spirit may be +saved.' + +MOTHER. O God! It must be he! + +DOMINICAN. Yes, it is he. Your son-in-law! The ways of Providence +are inscrutable. Was he heavily struck by the curse? + +MOTHER. Yes. That night he slept here, and was torn from his sleep +by an unexplained power that, as he told me, turned his heart to +ice. ... + +DOMINICAN. Did he have fearful visions? + +MOTHER. Yes. + +DOMINICAN. And was he harried by those terrible thoughts, of which +Job says, 'When I say, my bed shall comfort me, then Thou scarest +me with dreams and terrifiest me with visions; so that my soul +chooseth strangling, and death rather than life.' That's as it +should be. Did it open his eyes? + +MOTHER. Yes. But only so that his sight was blinded. For his +sufferings grew so great that he could no longer find a natural +explanation for them, and as no doctor could cure him, he began to +see that he was fighting higher conscious powers. + +DOMINICAN. Powers that meant him ill, and were therefore themselves +evil. That's the usual course of things. And then? + +MOTHER. He came upon books that taught him that such evil powers +could be fought. + +DOMINICAN. Oh! So he looked for what's hidden, and should remain +so! Did he succeed in exorcising the spirits that chastised him? + +MOTHER. He says he did. And it seems now that he can sleep again. + +DOMINICAN. Yes, and he believes what he says. Yet, since he hasn't +truly accepted the love of truth, God will trouble him with great +delusion, so that he'll believe what is false. + +MOTHER. The fault's his own. But he's changed my daughter: in other +days she was neither hot nor cold; but now she's on the way to +becoming evil. + +DOMINICAN. How do the two of them get on? + +MOTHER. Half the time, happily; the other half they plague one +another like devils. + +DOMINICAN. That's the way they must go. Plague one another till +they come to the Cross. + +MOTHER. If they don't part again. + +DOMINICAN. What? Have they done so? + +MOTHER. They've left one another four times, but have always come +back. It seems as if they're chained together. It would be a good +thing if they were, for a child's on the way. + +DOMINICAN. Let the child come. Children bring gifts that are +refreshing to tired souls. + +MOTHER. I hope it may be so. But it looks as if this one will be an +apple of discord. They're already quarrelling over its name; +they're quarrelling over its baptism; and the mother's already +jealous of her husband's children by his first wife. He can't +promise to love this child as much as the others, and the mother +absolutely insists that he shall! So there's no end to their +miseries. + +DOMINICAN. Oh yes, there is. Wait! He's had dealings with higher +powers, so that we've gained a hold on him; and our prayers will be +more, powerful than his resistance. Their effect is as extraordinary +as it is mysterious. (The STRANGER appears on the terrace. He is +in hunting costume and wears a tropical helmet. In his hand he has +an alpenstock.) Is that him, up there? + +MOTHER. Yes. That's my present son-in-law. + +DOMINICAN. Singularly like the first! But watch how he's behaving. +He hasn't seen me yet, but he feels I'm here. (He makes the sign of +the cross in the air.) Look how troubled he grows. ... Now he +stiffens like an icicle. See! In a moment he'll cry out. + +STRANGER (who has suddenly stopped, grown rigid, and clutched his +heart). Who's down there? + +MOTHER. I am. + +STRANGER. You're not alone. + +MOTHER. No. I've someone with me. + +DOMINICAN (making the sign of the cross). Now he'll say nothing; +but fall like a felled tree. (The STRANGER crumples up and falls to +the ground.) Now I shall go. It would be too much for him if he +were to see me, But I'll come back soon. You'll see, he's in good +hands! Farewell and peace be with you. (He goes out.) + +STRANGER (raising himself and coming down the steps). Who was that? + +MOTHER. A traveller. Sit down; you look so pale. + +STRANGER. It was a fainting fit. + +MOTHER. You've always new names for it; but they mean nothing +fresh. Sit down here, on the seat. + +STRANGER. No; I don't like sitting there. People are always +passing. + +MOTHER. Yet I've been sitting here since I was a child, watching +life glide past as the river does below. Here, on the road, I've +watched the children of men go by, playing, haggling, begging, +cursing and dancing. I love this seat and I love the river below, +though it does much damage every year and washes away the property +we inherited. Last spring it carried our whole hay crop off, so +that we had to sell our beasts. The property's lost half its value +in the last few years, and when the lake in the mountains has +reached its new level and the swamp's been drained into the river, +the water will rise till it washes the house away. We've been at +law about it for ten years, and we've lost every appeal; so we +shall be destroyed. It's as inevitable as fate. + +STRANGER. Fate's not inevitable. + +MOTHER. Beware, if you think to fight it. + +STRANGER. I've done so already. + +MOTHER. There you go again! You learn nothing from the chastisement +of Providence. + +STRANGER. Oh yes. I've learned to hate. Can one love what does evil? + +MOTHER. I've little learning, as you know; but I read yesterday +in an encyclopaedia that the Eumenides are not evilly disposed. + +STRANGER. That's true; but it's a lie they're friendly. I only +know one friendly fury. My own! + +MOTHER. Can you call Ingeborg a fury? + +STRANGER. Yes. She is one; and as a fury, she's remarkable. Her +talent for making me suffer excels my most infernal inventions; and +if I escape from her hands with my life, I'll come out of the fire +as pure as gold. + +MOTHER. You've got what you deserve. You wanted to mould her as you +wished, and you've succeeded. + +STRANGER. Completely. But where is this fury? + +MOTHER. She went down the road a few minutes ago. + +STRANGER. Down there? Then I'll go to meet my own destruction. (He +goes towards the back.) + +MOTHER. So you can still joke about it? Wait! (The MOTHER is left +alone for a moment, until the STRANGER has disappeared. The LADY +then enters from the right. She is wearing a summer frock, and is +carrying a post bag and some opened letters in her hand.) + +LADY. Are you alone, Mother? + +MOTHER. I've just been left alone. + +LADY. Here's the post. This is for job. + +MOTHER. What? Do you open his letters? + +LADY. All of them, because I want to know who it is I've linked my +life to. And I want to suppress everything that might minister to +his pride. In a word, I isolate him, so that he has to keep his own +electricity and run the danger of being broken to pieces. + +MOTHER. How learned you've grown? + +LADY. Yes. If he's unwise enough to confide almost everything to +me, I'll soon hold his fate in my hand. Now, if you please, he's +making electrical experiments and claims he'll be able to harness +the lightning, so that it'll give him light, warmth and power. +Well, let him do as he likes! From a letter that came to-day I see +he's even corresponding with alchemists. + +MOTHER. Does he want to make gold? Is the man sane? + +LADY. That's the important question. Whether he's a charlatan +doesn't matter so much. + +MOTHER. Do you suspect it? + +LADY. I'd believe any evil of him, and any good, on the same day. + +MOTHER. Is there any other news? + +LADY. The plans my divorced husband made for a new marriage have +gone wrong; he's grown melancholic, abandoned his practice and is +tramping the roads. + +MOTHER. Oh! He was always my son-in-law. He had a kind heart under +his rough manner. + +LADY. Yes. I only called him a werewolf in his role as my husband +and master. As long as I knew he was at peace, and on the way to +find consolation, I was content. But now he'll torment me like a +bad conscience. + +MOTHER. Have you a conscience? + +LADY. I never used to have one. But my eyes have been opened since +I read my husband's works, and I know the difference between good +and evil. + +MOTHER. But he forbade you to read them, and never foresaw you +wouldn't obey him. + +LADY. Who can foresee all the results of any action? + +MOTHER. Have you more bad news in your pocket, Pandora? + +LADY. The worst of all! Think of it, Mother, his divorced wife's +going to marry again. + +MOTHER. That ought to be reassuring, to you and to him. + +LADY. Didn't you know it was his worst nightmare? That his wife +would marry again and his children have a stepfather? + +MOTHER. If he can bear that alone, I shall think him a strange man. + +LADY. You believe he's too sensitive? But didn't he say himself +that an educated man of the world at the end of the nineteenth +century never lets himself be put out of countenance! + +MOTHER. It's easy to say so; but when things really happen. ... + +LADY. Yet there was a gift at the bottom of Pandora's box that was +no misfortune. Look, Mother! A portrait of his six-year-old son. + +MOTHER (looking at the picture). A lovely child. + +LADY. It does one good to see such a charming and expressive +picture. Tell me, do you think my child will be as beautiful? Well, +what do you say? Answer, or I'll be unhappy! I love this boy +already, but I feel I'd hate him if my child's not as lovely as he. +Yes, I'm jealous already. + +MOTHER. When you came here after your unlucky honeymoon, I'd hoped +you'd have got over the worst. But now I see it was only a +foretaste of what was to come. + +LADY. I'm ready for anything; and I don't think this knot can ever +be undone. It must be cut! + +MOTHER. But you're only making more difficulties for yourself by +suppressing his letters. + +LADY. In days gone by, when I went through life like a sleep-walker, +everything seemed easy to me, but I begin to be uncertain now he's +started to waken thoughts in me. (She puts the letters into the +post-bag.) Here he is. 'Sh! + +MOTHER. One thing more. Why do you let him wear that suit of your +first husband's? + +LADY. I like torturing and humiliating him. I've persuaded him it +fits him and belonged to my father. Now, when I see him in the +werewolf's things, I feel I've got both of them in my clutches. + +MOTHER. Heaven defend us! How spiteful you've grown! + +LADY. Perhaps that was my role, if I have one in this man's life! + +MOTHER. I sometimes wish the river would rise and carry us all away +whilst we're asleep at night. If it were to flow here for a +thousand years perhaps it would wash out the sin on which this +house is built. + +LADY. Then it's true that my grandfather, the notary, illegally +seized property not his own? It's said this place was built with +the heritage of widows and orphans, the funds of ruined men, the +property of dead ones and the bribes of litigants. + +MOTHER. Don't speak of it any more. The tears of those still living +have run together and formed a lake. And it's that lake, people +say, that's being drained now, and that'll cause the river to wash +us away. + +LADY. Can't it be stopped by taking legal action? Is there no +justice on earth? + +MOTHER. Not on earth. But there is in heaven. And heaven will drown +us, for we're the children of evildoers. (She goes up the steps.) + +LADY. Isn't it enough to put up with one's own tears? Must one +inherit other people's? + +(The STRANGER comes back.) + +STRANGER. Did you call me? + +LADY. No. I only tried to draw you to me, without really wanting +you. + +STRANGER. I felt you meddling with my destiny in a way that made me +uneasy. Soon you'll have learnt all I know. + +LADY. And more. + +STRANGER. But I must ask you not to lay rough hands on my fate. I +am Cain, you see, and am under the ban of mysterious powers, who +permit no mortals to interfere with their work of vengeance. You +see this mark on my brow? (He removes his hat.) It means: Revenge +is mine, saith the Lord. + +LADY. Does your hat press. ... + +STRANGER. No. It chafes me. And so does the coat. If it weren't +that I wanted to please you, I'd have thrown them all into the +river. When I walk here in the neighbourhood, do you know that +people call me the doctor? They must take me for your husband, the +werewolf. And I'm unlucky. If I ask who planted some tree: they +say, the doctor. If I ask to whom the green fish basket belongs: +they say, the doctor. And if it isn't his then it belongs to the +doctor's wife. That is, to you! This confusion between him and me +makes my visit unbearable. I'd like to go away. ... + +LADY. Haven't you tried in vain to leave this place six times? + +STRANGER. Yes. But the seventh, I'll succeed. + +LADY. Then try! + +STRANGER. You say that as if you were convinced I'd fail. + +LADY. I am. + +STRANGER. Plague me in some other way, dear fury. + +LADY. Well, I can. + +STRANGER. A new way! Try to say something ill-natured that 'the +other one's' not said already. + +LADY. Your first wife's 'the other one.' How tactful to remind me +of her. + +STRANGER. Everything that lives and moves, everything that's dead +and cold, reminds me of what's gone. ... + +LADY. Until the being comes, who can wipe out the darkness of the +past and bring light. + +STRANGER. You mean the child we're expecting! + +LADY. Our child! + +STRANGER. Do you love it? + +LADY. I began to to-day. + +STRANGER. To-day? Why, what's happened? Five months ago you wanted +to run off to the lawyers and divorce me; because I wouldn't take +you to a quack who'd kill your unborn child. + +LADY. That was some time ago. Things have changed now. + +STRANGER. Why now? (He looks round as if expecting something.) Now? +Has the post come? + +LADY. You're still more cunning than I am. But the pupil will +outstrip the master. + +STRANGER. Were there any letters for me? + +LADY. No. + +STRANGER. Then give me the wrapper? + +LADY. What made you guess? + +STRANGER. Give the wrapper, if your conscience can make such fine +distinctions between it and the letter. + +LADY (picking up the letter-bag, which she has hidden behind the +seat). Look at this! (The STRANGER takes the photograph, looks at +it carefully, and puts it in his breast-pocket.) What was it? + +STRANGER. The past. + +LADY. Was it beautiful? + +STRANGER. Yes. More beautiful than the future can ever be. + +LADY (darkly). You shouldn't have said that. + +STRANGER. No, I admit it. And I'm sorry. ... + +LADY. Tell me, are you capable of suffering? + +STRANGER. Now, I suffer twice; because I feel when you're +suffering. And if I wound you in self-defence, it's I who gets +fever from the wound. + +LADY. That means you're at my mercy? + +STRANGER. No. Less now than ever, because you're protected by the +innocent being you carry beneath your heart. + +LADY. He shall be my avenger. + +STRANGER. Or mine! + +LADY (tearfully). Poor little thing. Conceived in sin and shame, +and born to avenge by hate. + +STRANGER. It's a long time since I've heard you speak like that. + +LADY. I dare say. + +STRANGER. That was the voice that first drew me to you; it was like +that of a mother speaking to her child. + +LADY. When you say 'mother' I feel I can only believe good of you; +but a moment after I say to myself: it's only one more of your ways +of deceiving me. + +STRANGER. What ill have I ever really done you? (The LADY is +uncertain what to reply.) Answer me. What ill have I done you? + +LADY. I don't know. + +STRANGER. Then invent something. Say to me: I hate you, because I +can't deceive you. + +LADY. Can't I? Oh, I'm sorry for you. + +STRANGER. You must have poison in the pocket of your dress. + +LADY. Well, I have! + +STRANGER. What can it be? (Pause.) Who's that coming down the road? + +LADY. A harbinger. + +STRANGER. Is it a man, or a spectre? + +LADY. A spectre from the past. + +STRANGER. He's wearing a black coat and a laurel crown. But his +feet are bare. + +LADY. It's Caesar. + +STRANGER (confused). Caesar? That was my nickname at school. + +LADY. Yes. But it's also the name of the madman whom my ... first +husband used to look after. Forgive me speaking of him like that. + +STRANGER. Has this madman got away? + +LADY. It looks like it, doesn't it? + +(CAESAR comes in from the back; he wears a black frock coat and is +without a collar; he has a laurel crown on his head and his feet +are bare. His general appearance is bizarre.) + +CAESAR. Why don't you greet me? You ought to say: Ave, Caesar! For +now I'm the master. The werewolf, you must know, has gone out of +his mind since the Great Man went off with his wife, whom he +himself snatched from her first lover, or bridegroom, or whatever +you call him. + +STRANGER (to the LADY). That was strychnine for two adults! (To +CAESAR) Where's your master now--or your slave, or doctor, or +warder? + +CAESAR. He'll be here soon. But you needn't be frightened of him. +He won't use daggers or poison. He only has to show himself, for +all living things to fly from him; for trees to drop their leaves, +and the very dust of the highway to run before him in a whirlwind +like the pillar of cloud before the Children of Israel. ... + +STRANGER. Listen. ... + +CAESAR. Quiet, whilst I'm speaking. ... Sometimes he believes +himself to be a werewolf, and says he'd like to eat a little child +that's not yet born, and that's really his according to the right +of priority. ... (He goes on his way.) + +LADY (to the STRANGER). Can you exorcise this demon? + +STRANGER. I can do nothing against devils who brave the sunshine. + +LADY. Yesterday you made an arrogant remark, and now you shall have +it back. You said it wasn't fair for invisible ones to creep in by +night and strike in the darkness, they should come by day when the +sun's shining. Now they've come! + +STRANGER. And that pleases you! + +LADY. Yes. Almost. + +STRANGER. What a pity it gives me no pleasure when it's you who's +struck! Let's sit down on the seat--the bench for the accused. For +more are coming. + +LADY. I'd rather we went. + +STRANGER. No, I want to see how much I can bear. You see, at every +stroke of the lash I feel as if a debit entry had been erased from +my ledger. + +LADY. But I can stand no more. Look, there he comes himself. +Heavens! This man, whom I once thought I loved! + +STRANGER. Thought? Yes, because everything's merely delusion. And +that means a great deal. You go! I'll take the duty on myself of +confronting him alone. + +(The LADY goes up the steps, but does not reach the toy before the +DOCTOR becomes visible at the back of the stage. The DOCTOR comes +in, his grey hair long and unkempt. He is wearing a tropical helmet +and a hunting coat, which are exactly similar to the clothes of the +STRANGER. He behaves as though he doesn't notice the STRANGER'S +presence, and sits down on a stone on the other side of the road, +opposite the STRANGER, who is sitting on the seat. He takes of his +hat and mops the sweat from his brow. The STRANGER grows +impatient.) What do you want? + +DOCTOR. Only to see this house again, where my happiness once dwelt +and my roses blossomed. ... + +STRANGER. An intelligent man of the world would have chosen a time +when the present inhabitants of the house were away for a short +while; even on his own account, so as not to make himself ridiculous. + +DOCTOR. Ridiculous? I'd like to know which of us two's the more +ridiculous? + +STRANGER. For the moment, I suppose I am. + +DOCTOR. Yes. But I don't think you know the whole extent of your +wretchedness. + +STRANGER. What do you mean? + +DOCTOR. That you want to possess what I used to possess. + +STRANGER. Well, go on. + +DOCTOR. Have you noticed that we're wearing similar clothes? Good! +Do you know the reason? It's this: you're wearing the things I +forgot to fetch when the catastrophe took place. No intelligent man +of the world at the end of the nineteenth century would ever put +himself into such a position. + +STRANGER (throwing down his hat and coat). Curse the woman! + +DOCTOR. You needn't complain. Cast-off male attire has always been +fatal ever since the celebrated shirt of Nessus. Go in now and +change. I'll sit out here and watch, and listen, how you settle the +matter alone with that accursed woman. Don't forget your stick! +(The LADY, who is hurrying towards the house, trips in front of the +steps. The STRANGER stays where he is in embarrassment.) The stick! +The stick! + +STRANGER. I don't ask mercy for the woman's sake, but for the child's. + +DOCTOR (wildly). So there's a child, too. Our house, our roses, our +clothes, the bed-clothes not forgotten, and now our child! I'm +within your doors, I sit at your table, I lie in your bed; I exist +in your blood; in your lungs, in your brain; I am everywhere and +yet you can't get hold of me. When the pendulum strikes the hour of +midnight, I'll blow cold, on your heart, so that it stops like a +clock that's run down. When you sit at your work, I shall come with +a poppy, invisible to you, that will put your thoughts to sleep, +and confuse your mind, so that you'll see visions you can't +distinguish from reality. I shall lie like a stone in your path, so +that you stumble; I shall be the thorn that pricks your hand when +you go to pluck the rose. My soul shall spin itself about you like +a spider's web; and I shall guide you like an ox by means of the +woman you stole from me. Your child shall be mine and I shall speak +through its mouth; you shall see my look in its eyes, so that +you'll thrust it from you like a foe. And now, beloved house, +farewell; farewell, 'rose' room--where no happiness shall dwell +that I could envy. (He goes out. The STRANGER has been sitting on +the seat all this time, without being able to answer, and has been +listening as if he were the accused.) + +Curtain. + + + +ACT II + +SCENE I + +LABORATORY + +[A Garden Pavilion in rococo style with high windows. In the middle +of the room there is a large writing desk on which are various +pieces of chemical and physical apparatus. Two copper wires are +suspended from the ceiling to an electroscope that is standing on +the middle of the table and which is provided with a number of +bells, intended to record the tension of atmospheric electricity.] + +[On the table to the left a large old-fashioned frictional electric +generating machine, with glass plates, brass conductors, and Leyden +battery. The stands are lacquered red and white. On the right a +large old-fashioned open fireplace with tripods, crucibles, +pincers, bellows, etc.] + +[In the background a door with a view of the country beyond; it is +dark and cloudy weather, but the red rays of the sun occasionally +shine into the room. A brown cloak with a cape and hood is hanging +up by the fireplace; nearby a travelling bag and an alpenstock. The +STRANGER and the MOTHER are discovered together.] + +STRANGER. Where is ... Ingeborg? + +MOTHER. You know that better than I. + +STRANGER. With the lawyer, arranging a divorce. ... + +MOTHER. Why? + +STRANGER. I told you. No, it's so far-fetched, you'll think I'm +lying to you. + +MOTHER. Well, tell me! + +STRANGER. She wants a divorce, because I've refused to turn this +man out, although he's deranged. She says it's cowardly of me. ... + +MOTHER. I don't believe it. + +STRANGER. You see! You only believe what you wish; all the rest is +lies. Well, can you find it in accordance with your interests to +believe that she's been stealing my letters? + +MOTHER. I know nothing of that. + +STRANGER. I'm not asking you whether you know of it, but whether +you believe it. + +MOTHER (changing the subject). What are you trying to do here? + +STRANGER. I'm making experiments concerning atmospheric electricity. + +MOTHER. And that's the lighting conductor, that you've connected to +the desk! + +STRANGER. Yes. But there's no danger; for the bells would ring if +there were an atmospheric disturbance. + +MOTHER. That's blasphemy and black magic. Take care! And what are +you doing there, in the fireplace? + +STRANGER. Making gold. + +MOTHER. You think it possible? + +STRANGER. You take it for granted I'm a charlatan? I shan't blame +you for that; but don't judge too quickly. At any moment I expect +to get a sworn statement of analysis. + +MOTHER. I dare say. But what are you going to do if Ingeborg +doesn't come back? + +STRANGER. She will, this time. Later, perhaps, when the child's +here, she'll cut herself adrift. + +MOTHER. You seem very sure. + +STRANGER. Yes. As I said, I still am. So long as the bond's not +broken you can feel it. When it is, you'll feel that unpleasantly +clearly, too. + +MOTHER. But when you've parted from one another, you may yet both +be bound to the child. You can't tell in advance. + +STRANGER. I've been providing against that by a great interest, +that I hope will fill my empty life. + +MOTHER. You mean gold. And honour! + +STRANGER. Precisely! For a man the most enduring of all illusions. + +MOTHER. So you'd build on illusions? + +STRANGER. On what else should I build, when everything's illusion? + +MOTHER. If you ever awake from your dream, you'll find a reality of +which you've never been able to dream. + +STRANGER. Then I'll wait till that happens. + +MOTHER. Wait then. Now I'll go and shut the window, before the +thunderstorm breaks. + +STRANGER (going towards the back of the stage). That's going to be +interesting. (A hunting horn is heard in the distance.) Who's +sounding that horn? + +MOTHER. No one knows; and it means nothing good. (She goes out.) + +STRANGER (busying himself with the electroscope, and turning his +back on the open window as he does so; then taking up a book and +reading aloud.) 'When Adam's race of giants had increased enough +for them to consider their number sufficient to risk an attack on +those above, they began to build a tower that was to reach up to +Heaven. Those above were then seized with fear and, in order to +protect themselves, broke up the assembled multitude by so +confusing their tongues and their minds that two people who met +could not understand one another, even if they spoke the same +language Since then, those above rule by discord: divide and rule. +And the discord is upheld by the belief that the truth has been +found; but when one of the prophets is believed, he is a lying +prophet. If on the other hand a mortal succeeds in penetrating the +secret of those above, no one believes him, and he is struck with +madness so that no one ever shall. Since then mortals have been +more or less demented, particularly those who are held to be wise, +but madmen are in reality the only wise men; for they can see, hear +and feel the invisible, the inaudible and the intangible, though +they cannot relate their experiences to others.' Thus Zohar, the +wisest of all the books of wisdom, and therefore one that no one +believes. I shall build no tower of Babel, but I shall tempt the +Powers into my mousetrap, and send them to the Powers below, the +subterranean ones, so that they can be neutralised. It is the +higher Schedim, who have come between mortal men and the Lord +Zabaoth; and that is why joy, peace and happiness have vanished +from the earth. + +LADY (coming back in despair, throwing herself down in front of the +STRANGER and putting her arms round his feet and her head on the +ground.) Help me! Help me! And forgive me. + +STRANGER. Get up. In God's name! Get up. Don't do that. What's +happened? + +LADY. In my anger I've behaved foolishly. I've been caught in my +own net. + +STRANGER (lifting her up). Stand up, foolish child; and tell me +what's happened. + +LADY. I went to the public prosecutor. + +STRANGER. ... and asked for a divorce. ... + +LADY. ... that was my intention; but when I got there, I laid +information against the werewolf for a breach of the peace and +attempted murder. + +STRANGER. But he's guilty of neither! + +LADY. No, but I laid the information all the same. ... And when I +was there, he came himself to lay information against me for +bearing false witness. Then I went to the lawyer and he told me +that I could expect a sentence of at least a month. Think of it, my +child will be born in prison! How can I escape from that? Help me. +You can. Speak! + +STRANGER. Yes, I can help you. But, if I do, don't revenge yourself +on me afterwards. + +LADY. How little you know me. But tell me quickly. + +STRANGER. I must take the blame on myself, and say I sent you. + +LADY. How generous you are! Am I rid of the whole business now? + +STRANGER. Dry your eyes, my child, and take comfort. But tell me +about something else, that's nothing to do with this. Did you leave +this purse here? (The LADY is embarrassed.) Tell me! + +LADY. Has such a thing ever happened before? + +STRANGER. Yes. The 'other one' wanted to discover, in this way, +whether I stole. The first time it happened I wept, because I was +still young and innocent. + +LADY. Oh no! + +STRANGER. Now you seem to me the most wretched creature on earth. + +LADY. Is that why you love me? + +STRANGER. No. You've been stealing my letters, too! Answer, yes! +And that's why you wanted to prove me a thief with this purse. + +LADY. What have you got there, on the table. + +STRANGER. Lightning! + +(There is a flash of lightning, but no thunder.) + +LADY. Aren't you afraid? + +STRANGER. Yes, sometimes; but not of what you fear. + +(The contorted face of the DOCTOR appears outside the window.) + +LADY. Is there a cat in the room? I feel uneasy. + +STRANGER. I don't think so. Yet I too have a feeling that there's +someone here. + +LADY (turning and seeing the DOCTOR's face; then screaming and +hurrying to the STRANGER for protection.) Oh! There he is! + +STRANGER. Where? Who? + +(The DOCTOR'S face disappears.) + +LADY. There, at the window. It's he! + +STRANGER. I can see no one. You must be wrong. + +LADY. No, I saw him. The werewolf! Can't we be rid of him? + +STRANGER. Yes, we could. But it'd be useless, because he has an +immortal soul, which is bound to yours. + +LADY. If I'd only known that before! + +STRANGER. It's surely in the Catechism. + +LADY. Then let us die! + +STRANGER. That was once my religion; but as I no longer believe +that death's the end, nothing remains but to bear everything--to +fight, and to suffer! + +LADY. For how long must we suffer? + +STRANGER. As long as he suffers and our consciences plague us. + +LADY. Then we must try and justify ourselves to our consciences; +find excuses for our frivolous actions, and discover his weaknesses. + +STRANGER. Well, you can try! + +LADY. You say that! Since I've known he's unhappy I can see nothing +but his qualities, and you lose when I compare you with him. + +STRANGER. See how well it's arranged! His sufferings sanctify him, +but mine make me abhorrent and laughable! We must face the +immutable. We've destroyed a soul, so we are murderers. + +LADY. Who is to blame? + +STRANGER. He who's so mismanaged the fate of men. + +(There is a flash of lightning; the electric bells begin to ring.) + +LADY. O God! What's that? + +STRANGER. The answer. + +LADY. Is there a lightning conductor here? + +STRANGER. The priest of Baal wishes to coax the lightning from +heaven. ... + +LADY. Now I'm frightened, frightened of you. You're terrifying. + +STRANGER. You see! + +LADY. Who are you to defy Heaven, and to dare to play with the +destinies of men? + +STRANGER. Get up and collect your thoughts. Listen to me, believe +me, and pay me the respect that's my due; and I'll lift both of us +high above this frog pond, to which we've both descended. I'll +breathe on your sick conscience so that it heals like a wound. Who +am I? A man who has done what no one else has ever done; who will +overthrow the Golden Calf and upset the tables of the money-changers. +I hold the fate of the world in my crucible; and in a week I can +make the richest of the rich a poor man. Gold, the most false of +all standards, has ceased to rule; every man will now be as poor as +his neighbour, and the children of men will hurry about like ants +whose heap has been disturbed. + +LADY. What good will that be to us? + +STRANGER. Do you think I'll make gold in order to enrich ourselves +and others? No. I'll do it to paralyse the present order, to +disrupt it, as you'll see! I am the destroyer, the dissolver, the +world incendiary; and when all lies in ashes, I shall wander +hungrily through the heaps of ruins, rejoicing at the thought that +it is all my work: that I have written the last page of world +history, which can then be held to be ended. + +(The face of the DOMINICAN appears at the open window, without +being seen by those on the stage.) + +LADY. Then that was the real meaning of your last book! It was no +invention! + +STRANGER. No. But in order to write it, I had to link myself with +the self of another, who could take everything from me that +fettered my soul. So that my spirit could once more find a fiery +blast, on which to mount to the ether, elude the Powers, and reach +the Throne, in order to lay the lamentations of mankind at the feet +of the Eternal One. ... (The DOMINICAN makes the sign of the cross +in the air and disappears.) Who's here? Who is the Terrible One who +follows me and cripples my thoughts? Did you see no one? + +LADY. No. No one. + +STRANGER. But I can feel his presence. (He puts his hand to his +heart.) Can't you hear, far, far away, someone saying a rosary? + +LADY. Yes, I can hear it. But it's not the Angels' Greeting. It's +the Curse of Deuteronomy! Woe unto us! + +STRANGER. Then it must be in the convent of St. Saviour. + +LADY. Woe! Woe! + +STRANGER. Beloved. What is it? + +LADY. Beloved! Say that word again. + +STRANGER. Are you ill? + +LADY. No, but I'm in pain, and yet glad at the same time. Go and +ask my mother to make up my bed. But first give me your blessing. + +STRANGER. Shall I ...? + +LADY. Say you forgive me; I may die, if the child takes my life. +Say that you love me. + +STRANGER. Strange: I can't get the word to cross my lips. + +LADY. Then you don't love me? + +STRANGER. When you say so, it seems so to me. It's terrible, but I +fear I hate you. + +LADY. Then at least give me your hand; as you'd give it to someone +in distress. + +STRANGER. I'd like to, but I can't. Someone in me takes pleasure in +your agony; but it's not I. I'd like to carry you in my arms and +bear your suffering for you. But I may not. I cannot! + +LADY. You're as hard as stone. + +STRANGER (with restrained emotion). Perhaps not. Perhaps not. + +LADY. Come to me! + +STRANGER. I can't stir from here. It's as if someone had taken +possession of my soul; and I'd like to kill myself so as to take +the life of the other. + +LADY. Think of your child with joy. ... + +STRANGER. I can't even do that, for it'll bind me to earth. + +LADY. If we've sinned, we've been punished! Haven't we suffered +enough? + +STRANGER. Not yet. But one day we shall have. + +LADY (sinking down). Help me. Mercy! I shall faint! + +(The STRANGER extends his hand, as if he had recovered from a +cramp. The LADY kisses it. The STRANGER lifts her up and leads her +to the door of the house.) + +Curtain. + + +SCENE II + +THE 'ROSE' ROOM + +[A room with rose-coloured walls; it has small windows with iron +lattices and plants in pots. The curtains are rose red; the +furniture is white and red. In the background a door leading to a +white bed-chamber; when this door is opened, a large bed can be +seen with a canopy and white hangings. On the right the door +leading out of the house. On the left a fireplace with a coal +fire. In front of it a bath tub, covered with a white towel. A cradle +covered with white, rose-coloured and light-blue stuff. Baby +clothes are spread out here and there. A green dress hangs on the +right-hand wall. Four Sisters of Mercy are on their knees, facing +the door at the back, dressed in the black and white of Augustinian +nuns. The midwife, who is in black, is by the fireplace. The +child's nurse wears a peasant's dress, of black and white, from +Brittany. The MOTHER is standing listening by the door at the back. +The STRANGER is sitting on a chair right and is trying to read a +book. A hat and a brown cloak with a cape and hood hang nearby, and +on the floor there is a small travelling bag. The Sisters of Mercy +are singing a psalm. The others join in from time to time, but not +the STRANGER.] + +SISTERS. Salve, Regina, mater misericordiae; + Vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve. + Ad to clamamus, exules filii Evae; + Ad to suspiramus gementes et flentes + In hac lacrymarum valle. + +(The STRANGER rises and goes to the MOTHER.) + +MOTHER. Stay where you are! A human being's coming into the world; +another's dying. It's all the same to you. + +STRANGER. I'm not so sure! If I want to go in, I'm not allowed to. +And when I don't want to, you wish it. I'd like to now. + +MOTHER. She doesn't want to see you. Besides, presence here's no +longer needed. The child matters most now. + +STRANGER. For you, yes; but I'm still of most importance to myself. + +MOTHER. The doctor's forbidden anyone to go in, whoever they may +be, because she's in danger. + +STRANGER. What doctor? + +MOTHER. So your thoughts are there again! + +STRANGER. Yes. And it's you who led them! An hour ago you gave me +to understand that the child couldn't be mine. With that you +branded your daughter a whore; but that means nothing to you, if +you can only strike me to the heart! You are almost the most +contemptible creature I know! + +MOTHER (to the SISTERS). Sisters! Pray for this unhappy man. + +STRANGER. Make way for me to go in. For the last time--out of the +way. + +MOTHER. Leave this room, and this house too. + +STRANGER. If I were to do as you ask, in ten minutes you'd send the +police after me, for abandoning my wife and child! + +MOTHER. I'd only do that to have you taken to a convent you know of. + +MAID (entering at the back). The Lady's asking you to do something +for her. + +STRANGER. What is it? + +MAID. There's supposed to be a letter in the dress she left hanging +here. + +STRANGER (looks round and notices the green dress; he goes over to +it and takes a letter from the pocket). This is addressed to me, +and was opened two days ago. Broken open! That's good! + +MOTHER. You must forgive someone who's as ill as your wife. + +STRANGER. She wasn't ill two days ago. + +MOTHER. No. But she is now. + +STRANGER. But not two days ago! (Reading the letter.) Well, I'll +forgive her now, with the magnanimity of the victor. + +MOTHER. Of the victor? + +STRANGER. Yes. For I've done something no one's ever done before. + +MOTHER. You mean the gold. ...? + +STRANGER. Here's a certificate from the greatest living authority. +Now I'll go and see him myself. + +MOTHER. Now! + +STRANGER. At your request. + +MAID (to the STRANGER). The Lady asks you to come in. + +MOTHER. You hear? + +STRANGER. No, now I don't want to! You've made your own daughter, +my wife, into a whore; and branded my unborn child a bastard. You +can keep them both. You've murdered my honour. There's nothing for +me to do but to revive it elsewhere. + +MOTHER. You can never forgive! + +STRANGER. I can. I forgive you--and I shall leave you. (He puts on +the brown cloak and hat, picks up his stick and travelling bag.) +For if I were to stay, I'd soon grow worse than I am now. The +innocent child, whose mission was to ennoble our warped +relationship, has been defiled by you in his mother's womb and made +an apple of discord and a source of punishment a revenge. Why +should I stay here to be torn to pieces? + +MOTHER. For you, duties don't exist. + +STRANGER. Oh yes, they do! And the first of them's this: To protect +myself from total destruction. Farewell! + +Curtain. + + + +ACT III + +SCENE I + +THE BANQUETING HALL + +[Room in a hotel prepared for a banquet. There are long tables +laden with flowers and candelabra. Dishes with peacocks, pheasants +in full plumage, boars' heads, entire lobsters, oysters, salmon, +bundles of asparagus, melons and grapes. There is a musicians' +gallery with eight players in the right-hand corner at the back.] + +[At the high table: the STRANGER in a frock coat; next to him a +Civil Uniform with orders; a professorial Frock Coat with an order; +and other black Frock Coats with orders of a more or less striking +kind. At the second table a few Frock Coats between black Morning +Coats. At the third table clean every-day costumes. At the fourth +table dirty and ragged figures of strange appearance.] + +[The tables are so arranged that the first is furthest to the left +and the fourth furthest to the right, so that the people sitting at +the fourth table cannot be seen by the STRANGER. At the fourth +table CAESAR and the DOCTOR are seated, in shabby clothes. They are +the farthest down stage. Dessert has just been handed round and the +guests have golden goblets in front of them. The band is playing a +passage in the middle of Mendelssohn's Dead March pianissimo. The +guests are talking to one another quietly.] + +DOCTOR (to CAESAR). The company seems rather depressed and the +dessert came too soon! + +CAESAR. By the way, the whole thing look's like a swindle! He +hasn't made any gold, that's merely a lie, like everything else. + +DOCTOR. I don't know, but that's what's being said. But in our +enlightened age anything whatever may be expected. + +CAESAR. There's a professor at the high table, who's supposed to be +an authority. But what subject is he professor of? + +DOCTOR: I've no idea. It must be metallurgy and applied chemistry. + +CAESAR. Can you see what order he's wearing? + +DOCTOR. I don't know it. I expect it's some tenth rate foreign order. + +CAESAR. Well, at a subscription dinner like this the company's +always rather mixed. + +DOCTOR. Hm! + +CAESAR. You mean, that we ... hm. ... I admit we're not well +dressed, but as far as intelligence goes. ... + +DOCTOR. Listen, Caesar, you're a lunatic in my charge, and you must +avoid speaking about intelligence as much as you can. + +CAESAR. That's the greatest impertinence I've heard for a long +time. Don't you realise, idiot, that I've been engaged to look +after you, since you lost your wits? + +PROFESSOR (taping his goblet). Gentlemen! + +CAESAR. Hear, hear! + +PROFESSOR. Gentlemen! Our small society is to-day honoured by the +presence of the great man, who is our guest of honour, and when the +committee ... + +CAESAR (to the DOCTOR). That's the government, you know! + +PROFESSOR. ... and when the committee asked me to act as +interpreter and to explain the motives that prompted them I was at +first doubtful whether I could accept the honour. But when I +compared my own incapacity with that of others, I discovered that +neither lost in the comparison. + +VOICES. Bravo! + +PROFESSOR. Gentlemen! A century of discovery is ending with the +greatest of all discoveries--foreseen by Pythagoras, prepared for +by Albertus and Paracelsus and first carried out by our guest of +honour. You will permit me to give this feeble expression of our +admiration for the greatest man of a great century. A laurel crown +from the society! (He places a laurel frown on the STRANGER'S +head.) And from the committee: this! (He hangs a shining order +round the STRANGER'S neck.) Gentlemen! Three cheers for the Great +Man who has made gold! + +ALL (with the exception of the STRANGER). Hurrah! + +(The band plays chords from Mendelssohn's Dead March. During the +last part of the foregoing speech servants have exchanged the +golden goblets for dull tin ones, and they now begin to take away +the pheasants, peacocks, etc. The music plays softly. General +conversation.) + +CAESAR. Oughtn't we to taste these things before they take them +away? + +DOCTOR. It all seems humbug, except that about making gold. + +STRANGER (knocking on the table). Gentlemen! I've always been +proud of the fact that I'm not easy to deceive ... + +CAESAR. Hear, hear! + +STRANGER. ... that I'm not easily carried away, but I am touched at +the sincerity so obvious in the great tribute you've just paid me; +and when I say touched, I mean it. + +CAESAR. Bravo! + +STRANGER. There are always sceptics; and moments in the life of +every man, when doubts creep into the hearts of even the strongest. +I'll confess that I myself have doubted; but after finding myself +the object this sincere and hearty demonstration, and after taking +part in this royal feast, for it is royal; and seeing that, +finally, the government itself ... + +VOICE. The committee! + +STRANGER. ... the committee, if you like, has so signally +recognised my modest merits, I doubt no longer, but believe! (The +Civil Uniform creeps out.) Yes, gentlemen, this is the greatest and +most satisfying moment of my life, because it has given me back +the greatest thing any man can possess, the belief in himself. + +CAESAR. Splendid! Bravo! + +STRANGER. I thank you. Your health! + +(The PROFESSOR gets up. Everyone rises and the company begins to +mix. Most of the musicians go out, but two remain.) + +GUEST (to the STRANGER). A delightful evening! + +STRANGER. Wonderful. + +(All the Frock Coats creep away.) + +FATHER (an elderly, overdressed man with an eye-glass and military +bearing crosses to the doctor). What? Are you here? + +DOCTOR. Yes, Father-in-law. I'm here. I go everywhere he goes. + +FATHER. It's too late in the day to call me father-in-law. Besides, +I'm _his_ father-in-law now. + +DOCTOR. Does he know you? + +FATHER. No. He's not had that honour; and I must ask you to +preserve my incognito. Is it true he's made gold? + +DOCTOR. So it's said. But it's certain he left his wife while she +was in childbed. + +FATHER. Does that mean I can expect a third son-in-law soon? I +don't like the idea! The uncertainty of my position makes me hate +being a father-in-law at all. Of course, I've nothing to say +against it, since. ... + +(The tables have now been cleared; the cloths and the candelabra +have been removed, so that the tables themselves, which are merely +boards supported on trestles, are all that remain. A big stoneware +jug has been brought in and small jugs of simple form have been put +on the high table. The people in rags sit down next to the STRANGER +at the high table; and the FATHER sits astride a chair and stares +at him.) + +CAESAR (knocking on the table). Gentlemen! This feast has been +called royal, not on account of the excellence of the service +which, on the contrary, has been wretched; but because the man, +whom we have honoured, is a king, a king in the realm of the +Intellect. Only I am able to judge of that. (One of the people in +rags laughs.) Quiet. Wretch! But he's more than a king, he's a man +of the people, of the humblest. A friend of the oppressed, the +guardian of fools, the bringer of happiness to idiots. I don't know +whether he's succeeded in making gold. I don't worry about that, +and I hardly believe it ... (There is a murmur. Two policemen come +in and sit by the door; the musicians come down and take seats at +the tables.) ... but supposing he has, he has answered all the +questions that the daily press has been trying to solve for the +last fifty years. ... It's only an assumption-- + +STRANGER. Gentlemen! + +RAGGED PERSON. No. Don't interrupt him. + +CAESAR. A mere assumption without real foundation, and the analysis +may be wrong! + +ANOTHER RAGGED PERSON. Don't talk nonsense! + +STRANGER. Speaking in my capacity as guest of honour at this +gathering I should say that it would be of interest to those taking +part to hear the grounds on which I've based my proof. ... + +CAESAR. We don't want to hear that. No, no. + +FATHER. Wait! I think justice demands that the accused should be +allowed to explain himself. Couldn't our guest of honour tell the +company his secret in a few words? + +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 he 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 1ast 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 n 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 an, 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 a11? + +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! + +LADY. Where? + +CONFESSOR. Up there. Where the sun's always shining. + +LADY (rising). Is there a home for me there, too? + +CONFESSOR. There's a home for everyone! I'll show you the way. (He +goes with her into the background. The STRANGER makes a movement.) +You're impatient? You mustn't be! (He goes out. The STRANGER +remains sitting alone. The WORSHIPPERS OF VENUS get up, go towards +him and form a circle round him.) + +STRANGER. What do you want with me? + +WORSHIPPERS. Hail! Father. + +STRANGER (much upset). Why call me that? + +FIRST VOICE. Because we're your children. Your dear ones! + +STRANGER (tries to escape, but is surrounded and cannot). Let me go. +Let me go! + +SECOND VOICE (that of a pale youth). Don't you recognise me, +Father? + +TEMPTER (appearing in the background at the left-hand fork of the +path). Ha! + +STRANGER (to the Second Voice). Who are you? I seem to know your +face. + +SECOND VOICE. I'm Erik--your son! + +STRANGER. Erik! You here? + +SECOND VOICE. Yes. I'm here. + +STRANGER. God have mercy! And you, my boy, forgive me! + +SECOND VOICE. Never! You showed us the way to the sulphur springs! +Is it far to the lake? + +(The STRANGER falls to the ground.) + +TEMPTER. Ha! Jubilate, temptatores! + +VENUS WORSHIPPERS. Sulphur! Sulphur! Sulphur! Mercury! + +TEMPTER (coming forward and touching the STRANGER with his foot). +The worm! You can make him believe whatever you like. That comes +from his unbelievable pride. Does he think he's the mainspring of +the universe, the originator of all evil? This foolish man believes +he taught youth to go in search of Venus; as if youth hadn't done +that long before he was born! His pride's insupportable, and he's +been rash enough to try to botch my work for me. Give him another +greeting, lying Erik! (The SECOND VOICE--that is the youth--bends +over the STRANGER and whispers in his ear.) There were seven deadly +sins; but now there are eight. The eighth I discovered! It's called +despair. For to despair of what is good, and not to hope for +forgiveness, is to call ... (He hesitates before pronouncing the +word God, as if it burnt his lips.) God wicked. That is calumny, +denial, blasphemy. ... Look how he winces! + +STRANGER (rising quickly, and looking the TEMPTER to the eyes). Who +are you? + +TEMPTER. Your brother. Don't we resemble one another? Some of your +features seem to remind me of my portrait. + +STRANGER. Where have I seen it? + +TEMPTER. Almost everywhere! I'm often to be found in churches, +though not amongst the saints. + +STRANGER. I can't remember. ... + +TEMPTER. Is it so long since you've been to church? I'm usually +represented with St. George. (The STRANGER totters and would like +to fly, but cannot.) Michael and I are sometimes to be seen in a +group, in which, to be sure, I don't appear in the most favourable +light; but that can be altered. All can be altered; and one day the +last shall be first. It's just the same in your case. For the +moment, things are going badly with you, but that can be altered +too ... if you've enough intelligence to change your company. +You've had too much to do with skirts, my son. Skirts raise dust, +and dust lies on eyes and breast. ... Come and sit down. We'll have +a chat. ... (He takes the STRANGER jocularly by the ear and leads +him round the table.) Sit down and tremble, young man! (They both +sit down.) Well? What shall we do? Call for wine--and a woman? No! +That's too old a trick, as old as Doctor Faust! Bon! We modern are +in search of mental dissipation. ... So you're on your way to those +holy men up there, who think that they who sleep can't sin; to the +cowardly ones, who've given up the battle of life, because they +were defeated once or twice; to those that bind souls rather than +free them. ... And talking of that! Has any saintly man ever freed +you from the burden of sin? No! Do you know why sin has been +oppressing you for so long? Through renunciation and abstinence, +you've grown so weak that anyone can seize your soul and take +possession of it. Why, they can even do it from a distance! You've +so destroyed your personality that you see with strange eyes, hear +with strange ears and think strange thoughts. In a word you've +murdered your own soul. Just now, didn't you speak well of the +enemies of mankind; of Woman, who made a hell of paradise? You +needn't answer me; I can read your answer in your eyes and hear it +on your lips. You talk of pure love for a woman! That's lust, young +man, lust after a woman, which we have to pay for so dearly. You +say you don't desire her. Then why do you want to be near her? +You'd like to have a friend? Take a male friend, many of them! +You've let them convince you you're no woman hater. But the woman +gave you the right answer; every healthy man's a woman hater, but +can't live without linking himself to his enemy, and so must fight +her! All perverse and unmanly men are admirers of women! How's it +with you now? So you saw those invalids and thought yourself +responsible for their misery? They're tough fellows, you can +believe me; they'll be able to leave here in a few days and go back +to their occupations. Oh yes, lying Erik's a wag! But things have +gone so far with you, that you can't distinguish between your own +and other people's children. Wouldn't it be a great thing to escape +from all this? What do you say? Oh, I could free you ... but I'm no +saint. Now we'll call old Maia. (He whistles between his fingers: +MAIA appears.) Ah, there you are! Well, what are you doing here? +Have you any business with this fellow? + +MAIA. No. He's good and always was; but he'd a terrible wife. + +TEMPTER (to the STRANGER). Listen! You've not heard that yet, have +you? Rather the opposite. She was the good angel, whom you ruined ... +we've all been told that! Now, old Maia, what kind of story is it +he prattles of? He says he was plagued with remorse for seven years +because he owed you money. + +MAIA. He owed me a small sum once; but I got it back from him--and +with good interest--much better than the savings bank would have +given me. It was very good of him--very kind. + +STRANGER (starting up). What's that you said? Is it possible I've +forgotten? + +TEMPTER. Have you the receipt, Maia? If so, give it me. + +MAIA. The gentleman must have the receipt; but I've got the savings +bank book here. He paid the money into it in my name. (She produces +a savings bank book, and hands it to the STRANGER, who looks at +it.) + +STRANGER. Yes, that's quite right. Now I remember. Then why this +seven-year torment, shame and disgrace? Those reproaches during +sleepless nights? Why? Why? Why? + +TEMPTER. Old Maia, you can go now. But first say something nice +about this self-tormentor. Can't you remember any human quality in +this wild beast, whom human beings have baited for years? + +STRANGER (to MAIA). Quiet, don't answer him! (He stops his ears +with his fingers.) + +TEMPTER. Well, Maia? + +MAIA. I know well enough what they say about him, but that refers +to what he writes--and I've not read it for I can't read. Still, no +one need read it, if they don't want to. Anyhow the gentleman's +been very kind. Now he's stopping his ears. I don't know how to +flatter; but I can say this in a whisper. ... (She whispers some +thing to the TEMPTER.) + +TEMPTER. Yes. All human beings who are easily moved are baited +like wild beasts! It's the rule. Good bye, old Maia! + +MAIA. Good-bye, kind gentlemen. (She goes out.) + +STRANGER. Why did I suffer innocently for seven years? + +TEMPTER (pointing upwards with one finger). Ask up there! + +STRANGER. Where I never get an answer! + +TEMPTER. Well, that may be. (Pause.) Do you think _I_ look good? + +STRANGER. I can't say I do. + +TEMPTER. You look extremely wicked, too! Do you know why we look +like that? + +STRANGER. No. + +TEMPTER. The hate and malice of our fellow human beings have +fastened themselves on us. Up there, you know, there are real +saints, who've never done anything wicked themselves, but who +suffer for others, for relations, who've committed unexpiated sins. +Those angels, who've taken the depravity of others on themselves, +really resemble bandits. What do you say to that? + +STRANGER. I don't know who you are; but you're the first to answer +questions that might reconcile me to life. You are. ... + +TEMPTER. Well, say it! + +STRANGER. The deliverer! + +TEMPTER. And therefore. ...? + +STRANGER. Therefore you've been given a vulture. ... But listen, +have you ever thought that there's as good a reason for this as for +everything else? Granted the earth's a prison, on which dangerous +prisoners are confined--is it a good thing to set them free? Is it +right? + +TEMPTER. What a question! I've never really thought about it. Hm! + +STRANGER. And have you ever thought of this: we may be born in +guilt? + +TEMPTER. That's nothing to do with me: I concern myself with the +present. + +STRANGER. Good! Don't you think we're sometimes punished wrongly, +so that we fail to see the logical connection, though it exists? + +TEMPTER. Logic's not missing; but all life's a tissue of offences, +mistakes, errors, that are comparatively blameless owing to human +weakness, but that are punished by the most consistent revenge. +Everything's revenged, even our injudicious actions. Who forgives? +A magnanimous man-sometimes; heavenly justice, never! (A PILGRIM +appears in the background.) See! A penitent! I'd like to know what +wrong he's done. We'll ask him. Welcome to our quiet meadows, +peaceful wanderer! Take your place at the simple table of the +ascetic, at which there are no more temptations. + +PILGRIM. Thank you, fellow traveller in the vale of woe. + +TEMPTER. What kind of woe is yours? + +PILGRIM. None in particular; on the contrary, the hour of +liberation's struck, and I'm going up there to receive absolution. + +STRANGER. Listen, haven't we two met before? + +PILGRIM. I think so, certainly. + +STRANGER. Caesar! You're Caesar! + +PILGRIM. I used to be; but I am no longer. + +TEMPTER. Ha ha! Imperial acquaintance. Really! But tell us, tell us! + +PILGRIM. You shall hear. Now I've a right to speak, for my penance +is at an end. When we met at a certain doctor's house, I was shut +up there as a madman and supposed to be suffering from the illusion +that I was Caesar. Now the Stranger shall hear the truth of the +matter: I never believed it, but I was forced by scruples of +conscience to put a good face on it. ... A friend of mine, a bad +friend, had written proof that I was the victim of a misunderstanding; +but he didn't speak when he should have, and I took his silence as +a request not to speak either-and to suffer. Why did I? Well, in my +youth I was once in great need. I was received as a guest in a +house on an island far out to sea by a man who, in spite of unusual +gifts, had been passed over for promotion--owing to his senseless +pride. This man, by solitary brooding on his lot, had come to hold +quite extraordinary views about himself. I noticed it, but I said +nothing. One day this man's wife told me that he was sometimes +mentally unbalanced; and then thought he was Julius Caesar. For +many years I kept this secret conscientiously, for I'm not +ungrateful by nature. But life's tricky. It happened a few years +later that this Caesar laid rough hands on my most intimate fate. +In anger at this I betrayed the secret of his Caesar mania and made +my erstwhile benefactor such a laughing stock, that his existence +became unbearable to him. And now listen how Nemesis overtakes one! +A year later I wrote a book-I am, you must know, an author who's +not made his name. ... And in this book I described incidents of +family life: how I played with my daughter--she was called Julia, +as Caesar's daughter was--and with my wife, whom we called Caesar's +wife because no one spoke evil of her. ... Well, this recreation, +in which my mother-in-law joined too, cost me dear. When I was +looking through the proofs of my book, I saw the danger and said to +myself: you'll trip yourself up. I wanted to cut it out but, if +you'll believe it, the pen refused, and an inner voice said to me: +let it stand! It did stand! And I fell. + +STRANGER. Why didn't you publish the letter from your friend that +would have explained everything? + +PILGRIM. When the disaster had happened I felt at once that it was +the finger of God, and that I must suffer for my ingratitude. + +STRANGER. And you did suffer? + +PILGRIM. Not at all! I smiled to myself and wouldn't let myself be +put out. And because I accepted my punishment with calmness and +humility God lightened my burden; and I didn't feel myself +ridiculous. + +TEMPTER. That's a strange story; but such things happen. Shall we +move on now? We'll go for an excursion, now we've weathered the +storms. Pull yourself up by the roots, and then we'll climb the +mountain. + +STRANGER. The Confessor told me to wait for him. + +TEMPTER. He'll find you, anyhow! And up here in the village the +court's sitting to-day. A particularly interesting case is to be +tried; and I dare say I'll be called as a witness. Come! + +STRANGER. Well, whether I sit here, or up there, is all the same to +me. + +PILGRIM (to the STRANGER). Who's that? + +STRANGER. I don't know. He looks like an anarchist. + +PILGRIM. Interesting, anyhow! + +STRANGER. He's a sceptical gentleman, who's seen life. + +TEMPTER. Come, children; I'll tell you stories on the way. Come. +Come! + +(They go out towards the background.) + +Curtain. + + + +ACT III + +SCENE I + +TERRACE ON THE MOUNTAIN + +[A Terrace on the mountain on which the Monastery stands. On the +right a rocky cliff and a similar one on the left. In the far +background a bird's-eye view of a river landscape with towns, +villages, ploughed fields and woods; in the very far distance the +sea can be seen. Down stage an apple tree laden with fruit. Under +it a long table with a chair at the end and benches at the sides. +Down stage, right, a corner of the village town hall. A cloud seems +to be hanging immediately over the village.] + +[The MAGISTRATE sits at the end of the table in the capacity of +judge; the assessors on the benches. The ACCUSED MAN is standing on +the right by the MAGISTRATE; the witnesses on the left, amongst +them the TEMPTER. Members of the public, with the PILGRIM and the +STRANGER, are standing here and there not far from the judge's +seat.] + +MAGISTRATE. Is the accused present? + +ACCUSED MAN. Yes. Present. + +MAGISTRATE. This is a very sad story, that's brought trouble and +shame on our small community. Florian Reicher, twenty-three years +old, is accused of shooting at Fritz Schlipitska's affianced wife, +with the clear intention of killing her. It's a case of premeditated +murder, and the provisions of the law are perfectly clear. Has the +accused anything to say in his defence, or can he plead mitigating +circumstances? + +ACCUSED MAN. No. + +TEMPTER. Ho, there! + +MAGISTRATE. Who are you? + +TEMPTER. Counsel for the accused. + +MAGISTRATE. The accused man certainly has a right to the services +of counsel, but in the present case I think the facts are so clear +that the people have reached a certain conclusion; and the murderer +will hardly be able to regain their sympathy. Isn't that so? + +PEOPLE. He's condemned already! + +TEMPTER. Who by? + +PEOPLE. The Law and his own deed. + +TEMPTER. Listen to me! As counsel for the accused I represent him +and take the accusation on myself. I ask permission to address the +court. + +MAGISTRATE. I can't refuse it. + +PEOPLE. Florian's been condemned already. + +TEMPTER. The case must first be heard. (Pause.) I'd reached my +eighteenth year--it's Florian speaking--and my thoughts, as I grew +up under my mother's watchful eye, were pure; and my heart without +deceit, for I'd never seen or heard anything wicked. Then I-- +Florian, that is--met a young girl who seemed to me the most +beautiful creature I'd ever set eyes on in this wicked world, for +she was goodness itself. I offered her my hand, my heart, and my +future. She accepted everything and swore that she'd be true. I was +to serve five years for my Rachel--and I did serve, collecting one +straw after another for the little nest we were going to build. My +whole life was centred on the love of this woman! As I was true to +her myself, I never mistrusted her. By the fifth year I'd built the +hut and collected our household goods ... when I discovered she'd +been playing with me and had deceived me with at least three men. ... + +MAGISTRATE. Have you witnesses? + +BAILIFF. Three valid ones; I'm one of them. + +MAGISTRATE. The bailiff alone will be sufficient. + +TEMPTER. Then I shot her; not out of revenge, but in order to free +myself from the unhealthy thoughts her faithlessness had forced on +me; for when I tried to tear her picture out of my heart, images of +her lovers always rose and crept into my blood, so that at last I +seemed to be living in unlawful relationship with three men--with a +woman as the link between us! + +MAGISTRATE. Well, that was jealousy! + +ACCUSED MAN. Yes, that was jealousy. + +TEMPTER. Yes, jealousy, that feeling for cleanliness, that seeks to +preserve thoughts from pollution by strangers. If I'd been content +to do nothing, if I'd not been jealous, I'd have got into vicious +company, and I didn't want to do that. That's why she had to die so +that my thoughts might be cleansed of deadly sin, which alone is to +be condemned. I've finished. + +PEOPLE. The dead woman's guilty! Her blood's on her own head. + +MAGISTRATE. She's guilty, for she was the cause of the crime. + +(The FATHER of the dead woman steps forward.) + +FATHER. Your Worship, judge of my dead child; and you, countrymen, +let me speak! + +MAGISTRATE. The dead girl's father may speak. + +FATHER. You're accusing a dead girl; and I shall answer. Maria, my +child, has undoubtedly been guilty of a crime and is to blame for +the misdeeds of this man. There's no doubt of it! + +PEOPLE. No doubt! It's she who's guilty! + +FATHER. Permit her father to add a word of explanation, if not of +defence. (Pause.) When she was fifteen, Maria fell into the hands +of a man who seemed to have made it his business to entrap young +girls, much as a bird-catcher traps small birds. He was no seducer, +in the ordinary sense, for he contented himself with binding her +senses and entangling her feelings only to thrust her away and +watch how she suffered with torn wings and a broken heart--tortured +by the agony of love, which is worse than any other agony. For +three years Maria was cared for in an institution for the mentally +deranged. And when she came out again, she was divided, broken into +several pieces--it might be said that she was several persons. She +was an angel and feared God with one side of her spirit; but with +another she was a devil, and reviled all that was holy. I've seen +her go straight from dancing and frenzy to her beloved Florian, and +have heard her, in his presence, speak so differently and so alter +her expression, that I could have sworn she was another being. But +to me she seemed equally sincere in both her shapes. Is she to +blame, or her seducer? + +PEOPLE. She's not to blame! Where is her seducer? + +FATHER. There! + +TEMPTER. Yes. It was I. + +PEOPLE. Stone him! + +MAGISTRATE. The law must run its course. He must be heard. + +TEMPTER. Bon! Then listen, Argives! It was like this. Your humble +servant, born of poor but fairly honourable parents, was from the +beginning one of those strange birds who, in their youth, go in +search of their Creator--but without ever finding him, naturally! +It's more usual for old cuckoos to look for him in their dotage-- +and for good reasons! The urge for this youthful quest was +accompanied by a purity of heart and a modesty that even caused his +nurses to smile--yes, we can laugh now when we hear that this boy +would only change his underclothing in the dark! But even if we're +corrupted by the crudities of life, we're still bound to find +something beautiful in it; and if we're older something touching! +And so we can afford to-day to laugh at his childish innocence. +Scornful laughter, listeners, please. + +MAGISTRATE (seriously). He mistakes his listeners. + +TEMPTER. Then I ought to be ashamed of myself! (Pause.) He became a +youth--your humble servant--and fell into a series of traps that +were laid for his innocence. I'm an old sinner, but I blush at this +moment. ... (He takes of his hat.) Yes, look at me now--when I +think of the insight this young man got into the world of Potiphar's +wives that surrounded him! There wasn't a single woman. ... Really, +I'm ashamed in the name of mankind and the female sex--excuse me, +please. ... There were moments when I didn't believe my eyes, but +thought a devil had blinded my sight. The holiest bands. ... (He +pinches his tongue.) No, quiet! Mankind will feel itself +calumniated! Enough, until my twenty-fifth year I fought the good +fight; and I fell because. ... Well, I was called Joseph, and I +_was_ Joseph! I grew jealous of my virtue, and felt injured by the +glances of a lewd woman. ... And at last, cunningly seduced, I +fell. Then I became a slave of my passions; often and often I sat +by Omphalos and span, until I sank into the deepest degradation and +suffered, suffered, suffered! But in reality it was only my body +that was degraded; my soul lived her own life--her own pure life, I +can say--on her own account. And I raved innocently for pure young +virgins who, it seems, felt the bond that drew us together. +Because, without boasting, I can say they were attracted to me. I +didn't want to overstep the mark, but they did! And when I fled the +danger, their hearts were broken, so they said. In a word, I've +never seduced an innocent girl. I swear it! Am I therefore to blame +for the emotional sorrows of this young woman, who went out of her +mind? On the contrary, mayn't I count it a virtue that I shrank in +horror from the step that brought about her fall? Who'll cast the +first stone at me? No one! Then I mistake my listeners. Indeed, I +thought I might be an object of scorn, if I were to plead here for +my masculine innocence! Now, however, I feel young again; and +there's something for which I'd like to ask mankind's forgiveness. +If it weren't that I happened to see a cynical smile on the lips of +the woman who seduced me when I was young. Come forward, woman, and +look upon your work of destruction. Observe, how the seed has +grown! + +WOMAN (coming forward with dignity and modesty). It was I! Let me +be heard, and let me tell the simple story of my seduction. +(Pause.) Luckily my seducer is here, too. ... + +MAGISTRATE. Friends! I must break off the proceedings; otherwise +we'll get back to Eve in Paradise. + +TEMPTER. Who was Adam's seducer! That's just where we want to get +back to. Eve! Come forward, Eve. Eve! (He waves his cloak in the +air. The trunk of the tree becomes transparent and EVE appears, +wrapped in her hair and with a girdle about her loins.) Now, Mother +Eve, it was you who seduced our father. You are the accused: what +have you to say in your defence? + +EVE (simply and with dignity). The serpent tempted me! + +TEMPTER. Well answered! Eve has proved her innocence. The serpent! +Let the serpent come forward. (EVE disappears.) The serpent! (The +serpent appears in the tree trunk.) Here you can see the seducer of +us all. Now, serpent, who was it that beguiled you? + +ALL (terrified). Silence! Blasphemer! + +TEMPTER. Answer, serpent! (Lightning and a clap of thunder; all +flee, except the TEMPTER, who has fallen to the ground, and the +PILGRIM, the STRANGER and the LADY. The TEMPTER begins to recover; +he then gets up and sits down in an attitude that recalls the +classical statue 'The Polisher,' or 'The Slave.') Causa finalis, or +the first cause--you can't discover that! For if the serpent's to +blame, then we're comparatively innocent--but mankind mustn't be +told that! The Accused, however, seems to have got out of this +business! And the Court of justice has dissolved like smoke! Judge +not. Judge not, O Judges! + +LADY (to the STRANGER). Come with me. + +STRANGER. But I'd like to listen to this man. + +LADY. Why? He's like a small child, putting all those questions +that can't be answered. You know how little children ask about +everything. 'Papa, why does the sun rise in the east?' You know the +answer? + +STRANGER. Hm! + +LADY. Or: 'Mama, who made God?' You think that profound? Well, come +with me. + +STRANGER (fighting his admiration for the TEMPTER). But that about +Eve was new. ... + +LADY. Not at all. I learnt it in my Bible history, when I was +eight. And that we inherit the debts of our fathers is part of the +law of the land. Come, my son. + +TEMPTER (rising, shaking his limbs and climbing up the rocky wall +to the right with a limp). Come, I'll show you the world you think +you know, but don't. + +LADY (climbing up the rocky wall to the left). Come with me, my +son, and I'll show you God's beautiful world, as I've come to see +it, since the tears of sorrow washed the dust from my eyes. Come +with me! + +(The STRANGER stands irresolute between them.) + +TEMPTER (to the LADY). And how have you seen the world through your +tears? Like meadow banks reflected in troubled water! A chaos of +curved lines in which the trees seemed to be standing on their +heads. (To the STRANGER.) No, my son, with my field-glasses, dried +in the fire of hate--with my telescope I can see everything as it +is. Clear and sharp, precisely as it is. + +LADY. What do you know of things, my son? You can never see the +thing itself, only its picture; and the picture is illusion and not +the thing. So you argue about pictures and illusions. + +TEMPTER. Listen to her! A little philosopher in skirts. By Jupiter +Chronos, such a disputation in this giant amphitheatre of the +mountains demands a proper audience. Hullo! + +LADY. I have mine here: my friend, my husband, my child! If he'll +only listen to me, good; all will be well with me, and him. Come to +me, my friend, for this is the way. This is the mountain Gerizim, +where blessings are given. And that is Ebal, where they curse. + +TEMPTER. Yes, this is Ebal, where they curse. 'Cursed be the earth, +woman, for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou bring forth children; and +thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee.' +And then to the man this: 'Cursed is the ground for thy sake, +thorns and thistle shall it bring forth to thee, and in the sweat +of thy brow shalt thou labour!' So spoke the Lord, not I! + +LADY. 'And God. blessed the first pair; and He blessed the seventh +day, on which He had completed His work--and the work was good.' +But you, and we, have made it something evil, and that is why. ... +But he who obeys the commandments of the Lord dwells on Gerizim, +where blessings are given. Thus saith the Lord. 'Blessed shalt thou +be in the city, and blessed shalt thou be in the field. Blessed +shall be thy basket and thy store. Blessed shalt thou be when thou +comest in, and blessed when thou goest out. And the Lord shall give +rain unto thy land in his season to increase thy harvest, and thy +children shall flourish. And the Lord shall make thee plenteous in +goods, to lend to the peoples, and never to borrow. And the Lord +will bless all the work of thy hand, if thou shalt keep the +commandments of the Lord thy God!' (Pause.) So come, my friend, and +lay your hand in mine. (She falls on her knees with clasped hands.) +I beg you, by the love that once united us, by the memory of the +child that drew us together; by the strength of a mother's love--a +mother's--for so have I loved you, erring child, whom I've sought +in the dark places of the wood and whom at last I've found, hungry +and withered for want of love! Come back to me, prodigal one; and +bury your tired head on my heart, where you rested before ever you +saw the light of the sun. (A change comes over her during this +speech; her clothing falls from her and she is seen to have changed +into a white-robed woman with her hair let down and with a full +maternal bosom.) + +STRANGER. Mother! + +LADY. Yes, my child, your mother! In life I could never caress you-- +the will of higher powers denied it me. Why that was I don't dare +to ask. + +STRANGER. But my mother's dead? + +LADY. She was; but the dead aren't dead, and maternal love can +conquer death. Didn't you know that? Come, my child, I'll repay +where I have been to blame. I'll rock you to sleep on my knees. +I'll wash you clean from the ... (She omits the word she cannot +bring herself to utter) of hate and sin. I'll comb your hair, +matted with the sweat of fear; and air a pure white sheet for you +at the fire of a home--a home you've never had, you who've known no +peace, you homeless one, son of Hagar, the serving woman, born of a +slave, against whom every man's hand was raised. The ploughmen +ploughed your back and seared deep furrows there. Come, I'll heal +your wounds, and suffer your sorrows. Come! + +STRANGER (who has been weeping so violently that his whole body has +been trembling, now goes to the cliff on the left where the MOTHER +stands with open arms.) I'm coming! + +TEMPTER. I can do nothing now. But one day we shall meet again! (He +disappears behind the cliff.) + +Curtain. + + +SCENE II + +ROCKY LANDSCAPE ON THE MOUNTAIN + +[Higher up the mountain; among the clouds a rocky landscape with a +bog round it. The MOTHER on a rock, climbing until she disappears +into the cloud. The STRANGER stops, bewildered.] + +STRANGER. Oh, Mother, Mother! Why are you leaving me? At the very +moment when my loveliest dream was on the point of fulfilment! + +TEMPTER (coming forward). What have you been dreaming? Tell me! + +STRANGER. My dearest hope, most secret desire and last prayer! +Reconciliation with mankind, through a woman. + +TEMPTER. Through a woman who taught you to hate. + +STRANGER. Yes, because she bound me to earth--like the round shot a +slave drags on his foot, so that he can't escape. + +TEMPTER. You talk of woman. Always woman. + +STRANGER. Yes. Woman. The beginning and the end--for us men anyhow. +In relationship to one another they are nothing. + +TEMPTER. So that's it; nothing in themselves; but everything for +us, through us! Our honour and our shame; our greatest joy, our +deepest pain; our redemption and our fall; our wages and our +punishment; our strength and our weakness. + +STRANGER. Our shame! You've said so. Explain this riddle to me, you +who're wise. Whenever I appeared in public arm in arm with a woman, +my wife, who was beautiful and whom I adored, I felt ashamed of my +own weakness. Explain that riddle to me. + +TEMPTER. You felt ashamed? I don't know why. + +STRANGER. Can't you answer? You, of all men? + +TEMPTER. No, I can't. But I too always suffered when I was with my +wife in company, because I felt she was being soiled by men's +glances, and I through her. + +STRANGER. And when she did the shameful deed, you were dishonoured. +Why? + +TEMPTER. The Eve of the Greeks was called Pandora, and Zeus created +her out of wickedness, in order to torture men and master them. As +a wedding gift she received a box, containing all the unhappiness +of the world. Perhaps the riddle of this sphinx can more easily be +guessed, if it's seen from. Olympus, rather than from the pleasure +garden of Paradise. Its full meaning will never be known to us. +Though I'm as able as you. (Pause.) And, by the way, I can still +enjoy the greatest pleasure creation ever offered! Go you and do +likewise! + +STRANGER. You mean Satan's greatest illusion! For the woman who +seems most beautiful to me, can seem horrible to others! Even for +me, when she's angry, she can be uglier than any other woman. Then +what is beauty? + +TEMPTER. A semblance, a reflection of your own goodness! (He puts +his hand over his mouth.) Curses on it! I let it out that time. And +now the devil's loose. ... + +STRANGER. Devil? Yes. But if she's a devil, how can a devil make me +desire virtue and goodness? For that's what happened to me when I +first saw her beauty; I was seized with a longing to be like her, +and so to be worthy of her. To begin with I tried to be by taking +exercise, having baths, using cosmetics and wearing good clothes; +but I only made myself ridiculous. Then I began from within; I +accustomed myself to thinking good thoughts, speaking well of +people and acting nobly! And one day, when my outward form had +moulded itself on the soul within, I became her likeness, as she +said. And it was she who first uttered those wonderful words: I +love you! How can a devil ennoble us; how can a spirit of hell fill +us with goodness; how ...? No, she was an angel! A fallen angel, of +course, and her love a broken ray of that great light--that great +eternal light--that warms and loves. ... That loves. ... + +TEMPTER. What, old friend, must we stand here like two youths and +spell out the riddles of love? + +CONFESSOR (coming in). What's this chatterer saying? He's talked +away his whole life; and never done anything. + +TEMPTER. I wanted to be a priest, but had no vocation. + +CONFESSOR. Whilst you're waiting for it, help me to find a drunkard +who's drowned himself in the bog. It must be near here, because +I've been following his tracks till now. + +TEMPTER. Then it's the man lying beneath that brushwood there. + +CONFESSOR (picking up some twigs, and disclosing a fully clothed +corpse, with a white, young face.) Yes, it is! (He grows pensive as +he looks at the dead man.) + +TEMPTER. Who was he? + +CONFESSOR. It's extraordinary! + +TEMPTER. He must have been a good-looking man. And quite young. + +CONFESSOR. Oh no. He was fifty-four. And when I saw him a week ago, +he looked like sixty-four. His eyes were as yellow as the slime of +a garden snail and bloodshot from drunkenness; but also because +he'd shed tears of blood over his vices and misery. His face was +brown and swollen like a piece of liver on a butcher's table, and +he hid himself from men's eyes out of shame--up to the end he seems +to have been ashamed of the broken mirror of his soul, for he +covered his face with brushwood. I saw him fighting his vices; I +saw him praying to God on his knees for deliverance, after he'd +been dismissed from his post as a teacher. ... But ... Well, now +he's been delivered. And look, now the evil's been taken from him, +the good and beautiful that was in him has again become apparent; +that's what he looked like when he was nineteen! (Pause.) This is +sin--imposed as a punishment. Why? That we don't know. 'He who +hateth the righteous, shall himself be guilty!' So it is written, +as an indication. I knew him when he was young! And now I remember ... +he was always very angry with those who never drank. He criticised +and condemned, and always set his cult of the grape on the altar of +earthly joys! Now he's been set free. Free from sin, from shame, +from ugliness. Yes, in death he looks beautiful. Death is the +deliverer! (To the STRANGER.) Do you hear that, Deliverer, you who +couldn't even free a drunkard from his evil passions! + +TEMPTER. Crime as punishment? That's not so bad. Most penetrating! + +CONFESSOR. So I think. You'll have new matter for argument. + +TEMPTER. Now I'll leave you gentlemen for a while. But soon we'll +meet again. (He goes out.) + +CONFESSOR. I saw you just now with a woman! So there are still +temptations? + +STRANGER. Not the kind you mean. + +CONFESSOR. Then what kind? + +STRANGER. I could still imagine a reconciliation between mankind +and woman--through woman herself! And indeed, through that woman +who was my wife and has now become what I once held her to be +having been purified and lifted up by sorrow and need. But ... + +CONFESSOR. But what? + +STRANGER. Experience teaches; the nearer, the further off: the +further from one another, the nearer one can be. + +CONFESSOR. I've always known that--it was known by Dante, who all +his life possessed the soul of Beatrice; and Beethoven, who was +united from afar with Therese von Brunswick, knew it, though she +was the wife of another! + +STRANGER. And yet! Happiness is only to be found in her company. + +CONFESSOR. Then stay with her. + +STRANGER. You're forgetting one thing: we're divorced. + +CONFESSOR. Good! Then you can begin a new marriage. And it'll +promise all the more, because both of you are new people. + +STRANGER. Do you think anyone would marry us? + +CONFESSOR. I, for instance? That's asking too much. + +STRANGER. Yes. I'd forgotten! But I daresay someone could be found. +It's another thing to get a home together. ... + +CONFESSOR. You're sometimes lucky, even if you won't see it. +There's a small house down there by the river; it's quite new and +the owner's never even seen it. He was an Englishman who wanted to +marry; but at the last moment _she_ broke off the engagement. It +was built by his secretary, and neither of the engaged couple ever +set eyes on it. It's quite intact, you see! + +STRANGER. IS it to let? + +CONFESSOR. Yes. + +STRANGER. Then I'll risk it. And I'll try to begin life all over +again. + +CONFESSOR. Then you'll go down? + +STRANGER. Out of the clouds. Below the sun's shining, and up here +the air's a little thin. + +CONFESSOR. Good! Then we must part--for a time. + +STRANGER. Where are you going? + +CONFESSOR. Up. + +STRANGER. And I down; to the earth, the mother with the soft bosom +and warm lap. ... + +CONFESSOR. Until you long once more for what's hard as stone, as +cold and as white ... Farewell! Greetings to those below! + +(Each of them goes of in the direction he has chosen.) + +Curtain. + + +SCENE III + +A SMALL HOUSE ON THE MOUNTAIN + +[A pleasant, panelled dining-room, with a tiled stove of majolica. +On the dining-table, which is in the middle of the room, stand +vases filled with flowers; also two candelabra with many lighted +candles. A large carved sideboard on the left. On the right, two +windows. At the back, two doors; that on the left is open and gives +a view of the drawing-room, belonging to the lady of the house, +which is furnished in light green and mahogany, and has a standard +lamp of brass with a large, lemon-coloured lampshade, which is lit. +The door on the right is closed. On the left behind the sideboard +the entrance from the hall.] + +[From the left the STRANGER enters, dressed as a bridegroom; and +the LADY, dressed as a bride; both radiant with youth and beauty.] + +STRANGER. Welcome to my house, beloved; to your home and mine, my +bride; to your dwelling-place, my wife! + +LADY. I'm grateful, dear friend! It's like a fairy tale! + +STRANGER. Yes, it is. A whole book of fairy tales, my dear, written +by me. + +(They sit down on either side of the table.) + +LADY. Is this real? It seems too lovely to me. + +STRANGER. I've never seen you look so young, so beautiful. + +LADY. It's your own eyes. ... + +STRANGER. Yes, my own eyes that have learnt to see. And your +goodness taught them. ... + +LADY. Which itself was taught by sorrow. + +STRANGER. Ingeborg! + +LADY. It's the first time you've called me by that name. + +STRANGER. The first? I've never met Ingeborg; I've never known you, +as you are, sitting here in our home! Home! An enchanting word. An +enchanting thing I've never yet possessed. A home and a wife! You +are my first, my only one; for what once happened exists no longer-- +no more than the hour that's past! + +LADY. Orpheus! Your song has made these dead stones live. Make life +sing in me! + +STRANGER. Eurydice, whom I rescued from the underworld! I'll love +you to life again; revivify you with my imagination. Now happiness +will come to us, for we know the dangers to avoid. + +LADY. The dangers, yes! It's lovely in this house. It seems as if +these rooms were full of invisible guests, who've come to welcome +us. Kind spirits, who'll bless us and our home. + +STRANGER. The candle flames are still, as if in prayer. The flowers +are pensive. ... And yet! + +LADY. Hush! The summer night's outside, warm and dark. And stars +hang in the sky; large and tearful in the fir trees, like Christmas +candles. This is happiness. Hold it fast! + +STRANGER (still thinking). And yet! + +LADY. Hush! + +STRANGER (getting up). A poem's coming: I can hear it. It's for you. + +LADY. Don't tell it me. I can see it--in your eyes. + +STRANGER. For I read it in yours! Well, I couldn't repeat it, +because it has no words. Only scent, and colour. If I were to, I +should destroy it. What's unborn is always most beautiful. What's +unwon, most dear! + +LADY. Quiet. Or, our guests will leave us. + +(They do not speak.) + +STRANGER. This _is_ happiness--but I can't grasp it. + +LADY. See it and breath it; for it can't be grasped. + +(They do not speak.) + +STRANGER. You're looking at your little room. + +LADY. It's as bright green as a summer meadow. There's someone in +there. Several people! + +STRANGER. Only my thoughts. + +LADY. Your good, your beautiful thoughts. ... + +STRANGER. Given me by you. + +LADY. Had I anything to give you? + +STRANGER. You? Everything! But up to now my hands have not been +free to take it. Not clean enough to stroke your little heart. ... + +LADY. Beloved! The time for reconciliation's coming. + +STRANGER. With mankind, and woman--through a woman? Yes, that time +has come; and blessed may you be amongst women. + +(The candles and lamps go out; it grows dark in the dining-room; +but a weak ray of light can be seen, coming from the brass standard +lamp in the LADY's room.) + +LADY. Why's it grown dark? Oh! + +STRANGER. Where are you, beloved? Give me your hand. I'm afraid! + +LADY. Here, dearest. + +STRANGER. The little hand, held out to me in the darkness, that's +led me over stones and thorns. That little, soft, dear hand! Lead +me into the light, into your bright, warm room; fresh green like +hope. + +LADY (leading him towards the pale-green room). Are you afraid? + +STRANGER. You're a white dove, with whom the startled eagle finds +sanctuary, when heaven's thunder clouds grow black, for the dove +has no fear. She has not provoked the thunders of heaven! + +(They have reached the doorway leading to the other room, when the +curtain falls.) + +*** + +[The same room; but the table has been cleared. The LADY is sitting +at it, doing nothing. She seems bored. On the right, down stage, a +window is open. It is still. The STRANGER comes in, with a piece of +paper in his hand.] + +STRANGER. Now you shall hear it. + +LADY (acquiescing absent-mindedly). Finished already? + +STRANGER. Already? Do you mean that seriously? I've taken seven +days to write this little poem. (Silence.) Perhaps it'll bore you +to hear it? + +LADY (drily). No. Certainly not. (The STRANGER sits down at the +table and looks at the LADY.) Why are you looking at me? + +STRANGER. I'd like to see your thoughts. + +LADY. But you've heard them. + +STRANGER. That's nothing; I want to see them! (Pause.) What one +says is mostly worthless. (Pause.) May I read them? No, I see I +mayn't. You want nothing more from me. (The LADY makes a gesture as +if she were going to speak.) Your face tells me enough. Now you've +sucked me dry, eaten me hollow, killed my ego, my personality. To +that I answer: how, my beloved? Have _I_ killed your ego, when I +wanted to give you the whole of mine; when I let you skim the cream +off my bowl, that I'd filled with all the experience of along life, +with incursions into the deserts and groves of knowledge and art? + +LADY. I don't deny it, but my ego wasn't my own. + +STRANGER. Not yours? Then what is? Something that belongs to +others? + +LADY. Is yours something that belongs to others too? + +STRANGER. No. What I've experienced is my own, mine and no other's. +What I've read becomes mine, because I've broken it in two like +glass, melted it down, and from this substance blown new glass in +novel forms. + +LADY. But I can never be yours. + +STRANGER. I've become yours. + +LADY. What have you got from me? + +STRANGER. How can you ask me that? + +LADY. All the same--I'm not sure that you think it, though I feel +you feel it--you wish me far away. + +STRANGER. I must be a certain distance from you, if I'm to see you. +Now you're within the focus, and your image is unclear. + +LADY. The nearer, the farther off! + +STRANGER. Yes. When we part, we long for one another; and when we +meet again, we long to part. + +LADY. Do you really think we love each other? + +STRANGER. Yes. Not like ordinary people, but unusual ones. We +resemble two drops of water, that fear to get close together, in +case they should cease to be two and become one. + +LADY. This time we knew the dangers and wanted to avoid them. But +it seems that they can't be avoided. + +STRANGER. Perhaps they weren't dangers, but rude necessities; laws +inscribed in the councils of the immortals. (Silence.) Your love +always seemed to have the effect of hate. When you made me happy, +you envied the happiness you'd given me. And when you saw I was +unhappy, you loved me. + +LADY. Do you want me to leave you? + +STRANGER. If you do, I shall die. + +LADY. And, if I stay, it's I who'll die. + +STRANGER. Then let's die together and live out our love in a higher +life; our love, that doesn't seem to be of this world. Let's live +it out in another planet, where there's no nearness and no +distance, where two are one; where number, time and space are no +longer what they are in this. + +LADY. I'd like to die, yet I don't want to. I think I must be dead +already. + +STRANGER. The air up here's too strong. + +LADY. You can't love me if you speak like that. + +STRANGER. To be frank, there are moments when you don't exist for +me. But in others I feel your hatred like suffocating smoke. + +LADY. And I feel my heart creeping from my breast, when you are +angry with me. + +STRANGER. Then we must hate one other. + +LADY. And love one another too. + +STRANGER. And hate because we love. We hate each other, because +we're bound together. We hate the bond, we hate our love; we hate +what is most loveable, what is the bitterest, the best this life +can offer. We've come to an end! + +LADY. Yes. + +STRANGER. What a joke life is, if you take it seriously. And how +serious, if you take it as a joke! You wanted to lead me by the +hand towards the light; your easier fate was to make mine easier +too. I wanted to raise you above the bogs and quicksands; but you +longed for the lower regions, and wanted to convince me they were +the upper ones. I ask myself if it's possible that you took what +was wicked from me, when I was freed from it; and that what was +good in you entered into me? If I've made you wicked I ask your +pardon, and I kiss your little hand, that caressed and scratched me ... +the little hand that led me into the darkness ... and on the long +journey to Damascus. ... + +LADY. To a parting? (Silence.) Yes, a parting! + +(The LADY goes on her way. The STRANGER falls on to a chair by the +table. The TEMPTER puts his head in at the window, and rests +himself on his elbows whilst he smokes a cigarette.) + +TEMPTER. Ah, yes! C'est l'amour! The most mysterious of all +mysteries, the most inexplicable of all that can't be explained, +the most precarious of all that's insecure. + +STRANGER. So you're here? + +TEMPTER. I'm always everywhere, where it smells of quarrels. And in +love affairs there are always quarrels. + +STRANGER. Always? + +TEMPTER. Always! I was invited to a silver wedding yesterday. +Twenty-five years are no trifle--and for twenty-five years they'd +been quarrelling. The whole love affair had been one long shindy, +with many little ones in between! And yet they loved one another, +and were grateful for all the good that had come to them; the evil +was forgotten, wiped out--for a moment's happiness is worth ten +days of blows and pinpricks. Oh yes! Those who won't accept evil +never get anything good. The rind's very bitter, though the +kernel's sweet. + +STRANGER. But very small. + +TEMPTER. It may be small, but it's good! (Pause.) Tell me, why did +your madonna go her way? No answer; because he doesn't know! Now +we'll have to let the hotel again. Here's a board. I'll hang it out +at once. 'To Let.' One comes, another goes! C'est la vie, quoi? +Rooms for Travellers! + +STRANGER. Have you ever been married? + +TEMPTER. Oh yes. Of course. + +STRANGER. Then why did you part? + +TEMPTER. Chiefly--perhaps it's a peculiarity of mine--chiefly +because--well, you know, a man marries to get a home, to get into a +home; and a woman to get out of one. She wanted to get out, and I +wanted to get in! I was so made that I couldn't take her into +company, because I felt as if she were soiled by men's glances. And +in company, my splendid, wonderful wife turned into a little +grimacing monkey I couldn't bear the sight of. So I stayed at home; +and then, she stayed away. And when I met her again, she'd changed +into someone else. She, my pure white notepaper, was scribbled all +over; her clear and lovely features changed in imitation of the +satyr-like looks of strange men. I could see miniature photographs +of bull-fighters and guardsmen in her eyes, and hear the strange +accents of strange men in her voice. On our grand piano, on which +only the harmonies of the great masters used to be heard, she now +played the cabaret songs of strange men; and on our table there lay +nothing but the favourite reading of strange men. In a word, my +whole existence was on the way to becoming an intellectual +concubinage with strange men--and that was contrary to my nature, +which has always longed for women! And--I need hardly say this--the +tastes of these strange men were always the reverse of mine. She +developed a real genius for discovering things I detested! That's +what she called 'saving her personality.' Can you understand that? + +STRANGER. I can; but I won't attempt to explain it. + +TEMPTER. Yet this woman maintained she loved me, and that I didn't +love her. But I loved her so much I didn't want to speak to any +other human being; because I feared to be untrue to her if I found +pleasure in the company of others, even if they were men. I'd +married for feminine society; and in order to enjoy it I'd left my +friends. I'd married in order to find company, but what I got was +complete solitude! And I was supporting house and home, in order to +provide strange men with feminine companionship. _C'est l'amour_, +my friend! + +STRANGER. You should never talk about your wife. + +TEMPTER. No! For if you speak well of her, people will laugh; and +if you speak ill, all their sympathy will go out to her; and if, in +the first instance, you ask why they laugh, you get no answer. + +STRANGER. No. You can never find out who you've married. Never get +hold of her--it seems she's no one. Tell me--what is woman? + +TEMPTER. I don't know! Perhaps a larva or a chrysalis, out of whose +trance-like life a man one day will be created. She seems a child, +but isn't one; she is a sort of child, and yet not like one. Drags +downward, when the man pulls up. Drags upward, when the man pulls +down. + +STRANGER. She always wants to disagree with her husband; always has +a lot of sympathy for what he dislikes; is crudest beneath the +greatest superficial refinement; the wickedest amongst the best. +And yet, whenever I've been in love, I've always grown more +sensitive to the refinements of civilisation. + +TEMPTER. You, I dare say. What about her? + +STRANGER. Oh, whilst our love was growing _she_ was always +developing backwards. And getting cruder and more wicked. + +TEMPTER. Can you explain that? + +STRANGER. No. But once, when I was trying to find the solution to +the riddle by disagreeing with myself, I took it that she absorbed +my evil and I her good. + +TEMPTER. Do you think woman's particularly false? + +STRANGER. Yes and no. She seeks to hide her weakness but that only +means that she's ambitious and has a sense of shame. Only whores +are honest, and therefore cynical. + +TEMPTER. Tell me some more about her that's good. + +STRANGER. I once had a woman friend. She soon noticed that when I +drank I looked uglier than usual; so she begged me not to. I +remember one night we'd been talking in a cafe for many hours. When +it was nearly ten o'clock, she begged me to go home and not to +drink any more. We parted, after we'd said goodnight. A few days +later I heard she'd left me only to go to a large party, where she +drank till morning. Well, I said, as in those days I looked for all +that was good in women, she meant well by me, but had to pollute +herself for business reasons. + +TEMPTER. That's well thought out; and, as a view, can be defended. +She wanted to make you better than herself, higher and purer, so +that she could look up to you! But you can find an equally good +explanation for that. A wife's always angry and out of humour with +her husband; and the husband's always kind and grateful to his +wife. He does all he can to make things easy for her, and she does +all she can to torture him. + +STRANGER. That's not true. Of course it may sometimes appear to be +so. I once had a woman friend who shifted all the defects that she +had on to me. For instance, she was very much in love with herself, +and therefore called me the most egoistical of men. She drank, and +called me a drunkard; she rarely changed her linen and said I was +dirty; she was jealous, even of my men friends, and called me +Othello. She was masterful and called me Nero. Niggardly and called +me Harpagon. + +TEMPTER. Why didn't you answer her? + +STRANGER. You know why very well! If I'd made clear to her what she +really was, I'd have lost her favour that moment--and it was +precisely her favour I wanted to keep. + +TEMPTER. _A tout prix_! Yes, that's the source of degradation! You +grow accustomed to holding your tongue, and at last find yourself +caught in a tissue of falsehoods. + +STRANGER. Wait! Don't you agree that married people so mix their +personalities that they can no longer distinguish between meum and +tuum, no longer remain separate from one another, or cannot tell +their own weaknesses from those of the other. My jealous friend, +who called me Othello, took me for herself, identified me with +herself. + +TEMPTER. That sounds conceivable. + +STRANGER. You see! You can often explain most if you don't ask +who's to blame. For when married people begin to differ, it's like +a realm divided against itself, and that's the worst kind of +disharmony. + +TEMPTER. There are moments when I think a woman cannot love a man. + +STRANGER. Perhaps not. To love is an active verb and woman's a +passive noun. He loves and she is loved; he asks questions and she +merely answers. + +TEMPTER. Then what is woman's love? + +STRANGER. The man's. + +TEMPTER. Well said. And therefore when the man ceases to love her, +she severs herself from him! + +STRANGER. And then? + +TEMPTER. 'Sh! Someone's coming. Perhaps to take the house! + +STRANGER. A woman or a man? + +TEMPTER. A woman! And a man. But he's waiting outside. Now he's +turned and is going into the wood. Interesting! + +STRANGER. Who is it? + +TEMPTER. You can see for yourself. + +STRANGER (looking out of the window). It's she! My first wife! My +first love! + +TEMPTER. It seems she's left her second husband recently ... and +arrived here with number three; who, if one can judge by certain +movements of his back and calves, is escaping from a stormy scene. +Oh, well! But she didn't notice his spiteful intentions. Very +interesting! I'll go out and listen. + +(He disappears. The WOMAN knocks.) + +STRANGER. Come in! + +(The WOMAN comes in. There is a silence.) + +WOMAN (excitedly). I only came here because the house was to let. + +STRANGER. Oh! + +WOMAN (slowly). Had I known who wanted to let it, I shouldn't have +come. + +STRANGER. What does it matter? + +WOMAN. May I sit down a moment? I'm tired. + +STRANGER. Please do. (They sit down at the table opposite one +another, in the seats occupied by the STRANGER and the LADY in the +first scene.) It's a long time since we've sat facing one another +like this. + +WOMAN. With flowers and lights on the table. One night ... + +STRANGER. When I was dressed as a bridegroom and you as a bride ... + +WOMAN. And the candle flames were still as in prayer and the +flowers pensive. ... + +STRANGER. Is your husband outside? + +WOMAN. No. + +STRANGER. You're still seeking ... what doesn't exist? + +WOMAN. Doesn't it? + +STRANGER. No. I always told you so, but you wouldn't believe me; +you wanted to find out for yourself. Have you found out now? + +WOMAN. Not yet. + +STRANGER. Why did you leave your husband? (The WOMAN doesn't +reply.) Did he beat you? + +WOMAN. Yes. + +STRANGER. How did he come to forget himself so far? + +WOMAN. He was angry. + +STRANGER. What about? + +WOMAN. Nothing. + +STRANGER. Why was he angry about nothing? + +WOMAN (rising). No, thank you! I won't sit here and be picked to +pieces. Where's your wife? + +STRANGER. She left me just now. + +WOMAN. Why? + +STRANGER. Why did you leave me? + +WOMAN. I felt you wanted to leave me; so, not to be deserted, I +went myself. + +STRANGER. I dare say that's true. But how could you read my +thoughts? + +WOMAN (sitting down again). What? We didn't need to speak in order +to know one another's thoughts. + +STRANGER. We made a mistake when we were living together, because +we accused each other of wicked thoughts before they'd become +actions; and lived in mental reservations instead of realities. For +instance, I once noticed how you enjoyed the defiling gaze of a +strange man, and I accused you of unfaithfulness. + +WOMAN. You were wrong to do so, and right. Because my thoughts were +sinful. + +STRANGER. Don't you think my habit of 'anticipating you' prevented +your bad designs from being put in practice? + +WOMAN. Let me think! Yes, perhaps it did. But I was annoyed to find +a spy always at my side, watching my inmost self, that was my own. + +STRANGER. But it wasn't your own: it was ours! + +WOMAN. Yes, but I held it to be mine, and believed you'd no right +to force your way in. When you did so I hated you; I said you were +abnormally suspicious out of self-defence. Now I can admit that +your suspicions were never wrong; that they were, in fact, the +purest wisdom. + +STRANGER. Oh! Do you know that, at night, when we'd said good-night +as friends and gone to sleep, I used to wake and feel your hatred +poisoning me; and think of getting out of bed so as not to be +suffocated. One night I woke and felt a pressure on the top of my +head. I saw you were awake and had put your hand close to my mouth. +I thought you were making me inhale poison from a phial; and, to +make sure, I seized your hand. + +WOMAN. I remember. + +STRANGER. What did you do then? + +WOMAN. Nothing. Only hated you. + +STRANGER. Why? + +WOMAN. Because you were my husband. Because I ate your bread. + +STRANGER. Do you think it's always the same? + +WOMAN. I don't know. I suspect it is. + +STRANGER. But sometimes you've even despised me? + +WOMAN. Yes, when you were ridiculous. A man in love is always +ridiculous. Do you know what a cox-comb is? That's what a lover's +like. + +STRANGER. But if any man who loves you is ridiculous, how can you +respond to his love? + +WOMAN. We don't! We submit to it, and search for another man who +doesn't love us. + +STRANGER. But if he, in turn, begins to love you, do you look for a +third? + +WOMAN. Perhaps it's like that. + +STRANGER. Very strange. (There is a silence.) I remember you were +always dreaming of someone you called your Toreador, which I +translated by 'horse butcher.' You eventually got him, but he gave +you no children, and no bread; only beatings! A toreador's always +fighting. (Silence.) Once I let myself be tempted into trying to +compete with the toreador. I started to bicycle and fence and do +other things of the kind. But you only began to detest me for it. +That means that the husband mayn't do what the lover may. Later you +had a passion for page boys. One of them used to sit on the +Brussels carpet and read you bad verses. ... My good ones were of +no use to you. Did you get your page boy? + +WOMAN. Yes. But his verses weren't bad, really. + +STRANGER. Oh yes, they were, my dear. I know him! He stole my +rhythms and set them for the barrel organ. + +WOMAN (rising and going to the door.) You should be ashamed of +yourself. + +(The TEMPTER conies in, holding a letter in his hand.) + +TEMPTER. Here's a letter. It's for you. (The WOMAN takes it, reads +it and falls into a chair.) A farewell note! Oh, well! All +beginnings are hard--in love affairs. And those who lack the +patience to surmount initial difficulties--lose the golden fruit. +Pages are always impatient. Unknown youth, have you had enough? + +STRANGER (rising and picking up his hat). My poor Anna! + +WOMAN. Don't leave me. + +STRANGER. I must. + +WOMAN. Don't go. You were the best of them all. + +TEMPTER. Do you want to begin again from the beginning? That would +be a sure way to make an end of this. For if lovers only find one +another, they lose one another! What is love? Say something witty, +each one of you, before we part. + +WOMAN. I don't know what it is. The highest and the loveliest of +things, that has to sink to the lowest and the ugliest. + +STRANGER. A caricature of godly love. + +TEMPTER. An annual plant, that blossoms during the engagement, goes +to seed in marriage and then sinks to the earth to wither and die. + +WOMAN. The loveliest flowers have no seed. The rose is the flower +of love. + +STRANGER. And the lily that of innocence. That can form seeds, but +only opens her white cup to kisses. + +TEMPTER. And propagates her kind with buds, out of which fresh +lilies spring, like chaste Minerva who sprang fully armed from the +head of Zeus, and not from his royal loins. Oh yes, children, I've +understood much, but never this: what the beloved of my soul has to +do with. ... (He hesitates.) + +STRANGER. Well, go on! + +TEMPTER. What all-powerful love, that is the marriage of souls, has +to do with the propagation of the species! + +STRANGER and WOMAN. Now he's come to the point! + +TEMPTER. I've never been able to understand how a kiss, that's an +unborn word, a soundless speech, a quiet language of the soul, can +be exchanged, by means of a hallowed procedure, for a surgical +operation, that always ends in tears and the chattering of teeth. +I've never understood how that holy night, the first in which two +souls embrace each other in love, can end in the shedding of blood, +in quarrelling, hate, mutual contempt--and lint! (He holds his +mouth shut.) + +STRANGER. Suppose the story of the fall were true? In pain shalt +thou bring forth children. + +TEMPTER. In that case one could understand. + +WOMAN. Who is the man who says these things? + +TEMPTER. Only a wanderer on the quicksands of this life. (The WOMAN +rises.) So you're ready to go. Who will go first? + +STRANGER. I shall. + +TEMPTER. Where? + +STRANGER. Upwards. And you? + +TEMPTER. I shall stay down here, in between. ... + +Curtain. + + + +ACT IV + +SCENE I + +CHAPTER HOUSE OF THE MONASTERY + +[A Gothic chapter house. In the background arcades lead to the +cloisters and the courtyard of the monastery. In the middle of the +courtyard there is a well with a statue of the Virgin Mary, +surrounded by long-stemmed white roses. The walls of the chapter +house are filled with built-in choir stalls of oak. The PRIOR'S own +stall is in the middle to the right and rather higher than the +rest. In the middle of the chapter house an enormous crucifix. The +sun is shining on the statue of the Virgin in the courtyard. The +STRANGER enters from the back. He is wearing a coarse monkish cowl, +with a rope round his waist and sandals on his feet. He halts in +the doorway and looks at the chapter house, then goes over to the +crucifix and stops in front of it. The last strophe of the choral +service can be heard from across the courtyard. The CONFESSOR +enters from the back; he is dressed in black and white; he has long +hair and along beard and a very small tonsure that can hardly be +seen.] + +CONFESSOR. Peace be with you! + +STRANGER. And with you. + +CONFESSOR. How do you like this white house? + +STRANGER. I can only see blackness. + +CONFESSOR. You still are black; but you'll grow white, quite white! +Did you sleep well last night? + +STRANGER. Dreamlessly, like a tired child. But tell me: why do I +find so many locked doors? + +CONFESSOR. You'll gradually learn to open them. + +STRANGER. Is this a large building? + +CONFESSOR. Endless! It dates from the time of Charlemagne and has +continually grown through pious benefactions. Untouched by the +spiritual upheavals and changes of different epochs, it stands on +its rocky height as a monument of Western culture. That is to say: +Christian faith wedded to the knowledge of Hellas and Rome. + +STRANGER. So it's not merely a religious foundation? + +CONFESSOR. No. It embraces all the arts and sciences as well. +There's a library, museum, observatory and laboratory--as you'll +see later. Agriculture and horticulture are also studied here; and +a hospital for laymen, with its own sulphur springs, is attached to +the monastery. + +STRANGER. One word more, before the chapter assembles. What kind of +man is the Prior? + +CONFESSOR (smiling). He is the Prior! Aloof, without peer, dwelling +on the summits of human knowledge, and ... well, you'll see him +soon. + +STRANGER. Is it true that he's so old? + +CONFESSOR. He's reached an unusual age. He was born at the +beginning of the century that's now nearing its end. + +STRANGER. Has he always been in the monastery? + +CONFESSOR. No. He's not always been a monk, though always a priest. +Once he was a minister, but that was seventy years ago. Twice +curator of the university. Archbishop. ... 'Sh! Mass is over. + +STRANGER. I presume he's not the kind of unprejudiced priest who +pretends to have vices when he has none? + +CONFESSOR. Not at all. But he's seen life and mankind, and he's +more human than priestly. + +STRANGER. And the fathers? + +CONFESSOR. Wise men, with strange histories, and none of them +alike. + +STRANGER. Who can never have known life as it's lived. ... + +CONFESSOR. All have lived their lives, more than once; have +suffered shipwreck, started again, gone to pieces and risen +once more. You must wait. + +STRANGER. The Prior's sure to ask me questions. I don't think +I can agree to everything. + +CONFESSOR. On the contrary, you must show yourself as you are; and +defend your opinions to the last. + +STRANGER. Will contradiction be permitted here? + +CONFESSOR. Here? You're a child, who's lived in a childish world, +where you've played with thoughts and words. You've lived in the +erroneous belief that language, a material thing, can be a vehicle +for anything so subtle as thoughts and feelings. We've discovered +that error, and therefore speak as little as possible; for we are +aware of, and can divine, the innermost thoughts of our neighbour. +We've so developed our perceptive faculties by spiritual exercises +that we are linked in a single chain; and can detect a feeling of +pleasure and harmony, when there's complete accord. The Prior, who +has trained himself most rigorously, can feel if anyone's thoughts +have strayed into wrong paths. In some respects he's like--merely +like, I say--a telephone engineer's galvanometer, that shows when +and where a current has been interrupted. Therefore we can have no +secrets from one another, and so do not need the confessional. +Think of all this when you confront the searching eye of the Prior! + +STRANGER. Is there any intention of examining me? + +CONFESSOR. Oh no. There are merely a few questions to answer +without any deep meaning, before the practical examinations. Quiet! +Here they are. + +(He goes to one side. The PRIOR enters from the back. He is dressed +entirely in white and he has pulled up his hood. He is a tall man +with long white hair and along white beard-his head is like that of +Jupiter. His face is pale, but full and without wrinkles. His eyes +are large, surrounded by shadows and his eyebrows strongly marked. +A quiet, majestic calm reigns over his whole personality. The PRIOR +is followed by twelve Fathers, dressed in black and white, with +black hoods, also pulled up. All bow to the crucifix and then go to +their places.) + +PRIOR (after looking at the STRANGER for a moment.) What do you +seek here? (The STRANGER is confused and tries to find an answer, +but cannot. The PRIOR goes on, calmly, firmly, but indulgently.) +Peace? Isn't that so? (The STRANGER makes a sign of assent with +head and mouth.) But if the whole of life is a struggle, how can +you find peace amongst the living? (The STRANGER is not able to +answer.) Do you want to turn your back on life because you feel +you've been injured, cheated? + +STRANGER (in a weak voice). Yes. + +PRIOR. So you've been defrauded, unjustly dealt with? And this +injustice began so early that you, an innocent child, couldn't +imagine you'd committed any crime that was worthy of punishment. +Well, once you were unjustly accused of stealing fruit; tormented +into taking the offence on yourself; tortured into telling lies +about yourself and forced to beg forgiveness for a fault you'd not +committed. Wasn't it so? + +STRANGER (with certainty). Yes. It was. + +PRIOR. It was; and you've never been able to forget it. Never. Now +listen, you've a good memory; can you remember _The Swiss Family +Robinson_? + +STRANGER (shrinking). _The Swiss Family Robinson_? + +PRIOR. Yes. Those events that caused you such mental torture +happened in 1857, but at Christmas 1856, that is the year before, +you tore a copy of that book and out of fear of punishment hid it +under a chest in the kitchen. (The STRANGER is taken aback.) The +wardrobe was painted in oak graining, and clothes hung in its upper +part, whilst shoes stood below. This wardrobe seemed enormously big +to you, for you were a small child, and you couldn't imagine it +could ever be moved; but during spring cleaning at Easter what was +hidden was brought to light. Fear drove you to put the blame on a +schoolfellow. And now he had to endure torture, because appearances +were against him, for you were thought to be trustworthy. After +this the history of your sorrows comes as a logical sequence. You +accept this logic? + +STRANGER. Yes. Punish me! + +PRIOR. No. I don't punish; when I was a child I did--similar +things. But will you now promise to forget this history of your own +sufferings for all time and never to recount it again? + +STRANGER. I promise! If only he whom I took advantage of could +forgive me. + +PRIOR. He has already. Isn't that so, Pater Isidor? + +ISIDOR (who was the DOCTOR in the first part of 'The Road to +Damascus,' rising). With my whole heart! + +STRANGER. It's you! + +ISIDOR. Yes. I. + +PRIOR (to FATHER ISIDOR). Pater Isidor, say a word, just one. + +ISIDOR. It was in the year 1856 that I had to endure my torture. +But even in 1854 one of my brothers suffered in the same way, owing +to a false accusation on my part. (To the STRANGER.) So we're all +guilty and not one of us is without blemish; and I believe my +victim had no clear conscience either. (He sits down.) + +PRIOR. If we could only stop accusing one another and particularly +Eternal Justice! But we're born in guilt and all resemble Adam! (To +the STRANGER.) There was something you wanted to know, was there +not? + +STRANGER. I wanted to know life's inmost meaning. + +PRIOR. The very innermost! So you wanted to learn what no man's +permitted to know. Pater Uriel! (PATER URIEL, who is blind, rises. +The PRIOR speaks to the STRANGER.) Look at this blind father! We +call him Uriel in remembrance of Uriel Acosta, whom perhaps you've +heard of? (The STRANGER makes a sign that he has not.) You haven't? +All young people should have heard of him. Uriel Acosta was a +Portuguese of Jewish descent, who, however, was brought up in the +Christian faith. When he was still fairly young he began to +inquire--you understand--to inquire if Christ were really God; with +the result that he went over to the Jewish faith. And then he began +research into the Mosaic writings and the immortality of the soul, +with the result that the Rabbis handed him over to the Christian +priesthood for punishment. A long time after he returned to the +Jewish faith. But his thirst for knowledge knew no bounds, and he +continued his researches till he found he'd reached absolute +nullity; and in despair that he couldn't learn the final secret he +took his own life with a pistol shot. (Pause.) Now look at our good +father Uriel here. He, too, was once very young and anxious to +know; he always wanted to be in the forefront of every modern +movement, and he discovered new philosophies. I may add, by the +way, that he's a friend of my boyhood and almost as old as I. Now +about 1820 he came upon the so-called rational philosophy, that had +already lain in its grave for twenty years. With this system of +thought, which was supposed to be a master key, all locks were to +be picked, all questions answered and all opponents confuted-- +everything was clear and simple. In those days Uriel was a strong +opponent of all religions and in particular followed the +Mesmerists, as the hypnotisers of that age were called. In 1830 our +friend became a Hegelian, though, to be sure, rather late in the +day. Then he re-discovered God, a God who was immanent in nature +and in man, and found he was a little god himself. Now, as ill-luck +would have it, there were two Hegels, just as there were two +Voltaires; and the later, or more conservative Hegel, had developed +his All-godhead till it had become a compromise with the Christian +view. And so Father Uriel, who never wanted to be behind the times, +became a rationalistic Christian, who was given the thankless task +of combating Rationalism and himself. (Pause.) I'll shorten the +whole sad history for Father Uriel's sake. In 1850 he again became +a materialist and an enemy of Christianity. In 1870 he became a +hypnotist, in 1880 a theosophist, and 1890 he wanted to shoot +himself! I met him just at that time. He was sitting on a bench in +Unter den Linden in Berlin, and he was blind. This Uriel was blind-- +and Uriel means 'God is my Light'--who for a century had marched +with the torch of liberalism at the head of _every_ modern +movement! (To the STRANGER.) You see, he wanted to know, but he +failed! And therefore he now believes. Is there anything else you'd +like to know? + +STRANGER. One thing only. + +PRIOR. Speak. + +STRANGER. If Father Uriel had held to his first faith in 1810, men +would have called him conservative or old-fashioned; but now, as +he's followed the developments of his time and has therefore +discarded his youthful faith, men will call him a renegade--that's +to say: whatever he does mankind will blame him. + +PRIOR. Do you heed what men say? Father Clemens, may I tell him how +you heeded what men said? (PATER CLEMENS rises and makes a gesture +of assent.) Father Clemens is our greatest figure painter. In the +world outside he's known by another name, a very famous one. Father +Clemens was a young man in 1830. He felt he had a talent for +painting and gave himself up to it with his whole soul. When he was +twenty he was exhibiting. The public, the critics, his teachers, +and his parents were all of the opinion that he'd made a mistake in +the choice of his profession. Young Clemens heeded what men were +saying, so he laid down his brush and turned bookseller. When he +was fifty years of age, and had his life behind him, the paintings +of his early years were discovered by some stranger; and were then +recognised as masterpieces by the public, the critics, his teachers +and relations! But it was too late. And when Father Clemens +complained of the wickedness of the world, the world answered with +a heartless grin: 'Why did you let yourself be taken in?' Father +Clemens grieved so much at this, that he came to us. But he doesn't +grieve any longer now. Or do you, Father Clemens? + +CLEMENS. No! But that isn't the end of the story. The paintings I'd +done in 1830 were admired and hung in a museum till 1880. Taste +then changed very quickly, and one day an important newspaper +announced that their presence there was an outrage. So they were +banished to the attic. + +PRIOR (to the STRANGER). That's a good story! + +CLEMENS. But it's still not finished. By 1890 taste had so changed +again that a professor of the History of Art wrote that it was a +national scandal that my works should be hanging in an attic. So +the pictures were brought down again, and, for the time being, are +classical. But for how long? From that you can see, young man, in +what worldly fame consists? Vanitas vanitatum vanitas! + +STRANGER. Then is life worth living? + +PRIOR. Ask Pater Melcher, who is experienced not only in the world +of deception and error, but also in that of lies and contradictions. +Follow him: he'll show you the picture gallery and tell you stories. + +STRANGER. I'll gladly follow anyone who can teach me something. + +(PATER MELCHER takes the STRANGER by the hand and leads him out of +the Chapter House.) + +Curtain. + + +SCENE II + +PICTURE GALLERY OF THE MONASTERY + +[Picture Gallery of the Monastery. There are mostly portraits of +people with two heads.] + +MELCHER. Well, first we have here a small landscape, by an unknown +master, called 'The Two Towers.' Perhaps you've been in Switzerland +and know the originals. + +STRANGER. I've been in Switzerland! + +MELCHER. Exactly. Then near the station of Amsteg on the Gotthard +railway you've seen a tower, called Zwing-Uri, sung of by Schiller +in his _Wilhelm Tell_. It stands there as a monument to the cruel +oppression which the inhabitants of Uri suffered at the hands of +the German Emperors. Good! On the Italian side of the Gotthard lies +Bellinzona, as you know. There are many towers to be seen there, +but the most curious is called Castel d'Uri. That's the monument +recalling the cruel oppression which the Italian cantons suffered +at the hands of the inhabitants of Uri! Now do you understand? + +STRANGER. So freedom means: freedom to oppress others. That's new +to me. + +MELCHER. Then let's go on without further comment to the portrait +collection. Number one in the catalogue. Boccaccio, with two heads-- +all our portraits have at least two heads. His story's well known. +The great man began his career by writing dissolute and godless +tales, which he dedicated to Queen Johanna of Naples, who'd seduced +the son of St. Brigitta. Boccaccio ended up as a saint in a +monastery where he lectured on Dante's Hell and the devils that, in +his youth, he had thought to drive out in a most original way. +You'll notice now, how the two faces are meeting each other's gaze! + +STRANGER. Yes. But all trace of humour's lacking; and humour's to +be expected in a man who knew himself as well as our friend +Boccaccio did. + +MELCHER. Number two in the catalogue. Ah, yes; that's two-headed +Doctor Luther. The youthful champion of tolerance and the aged +upholder of intolerance. Have I said enough? + +STRANGER. Quite enough. + +MELCHER. Number three in the catalogue. The great Gustavus Adolphus +accepting Catholic funds from Cardinal Richelieu in order to fight +for Protestantism, whilst remaining neutral in the face of the +Catholic League. + +STRANGER. How do Protestants explain this threefold contradiction? + +MELCHER. They say it's not true. Number four in the catalogue. +Schiller, the author of The Robbers, who was offered the freedom of +the City of Paris by the leaders of the French Revolution in 1792; +but who had been made a State Councillor of Meiningen as early as +1790 and a royal Danish Stipendiary in 1791. The scene depicts the +State Councillor--and friend of his Excellency Goethe--receiving +the Diploma of Honour from the leaders of the French Revolution as +late as 1798. Think of it, the diploma of the Reign of Terror in +the year 1798, when the Revolution was over and the country under +the Directory! I'd have liked to have seen the Councillor and his +friend, His Excellency! But it didn't matter, for two years later +he repaid his nomination by writing the _Song of the Bell_, in +which he expressed his thanks and begged the revolutionaries to +keep quiet! Well, that's life. We're intelligent people and love +_The Robbers_ as much as _The Song of the Bell_; Schiller as much +as Goethe! + +STRANGER. The work remains, the master perishes. + +MELCHER. Goethe, yes! Number five in the catalogue. He began with +Strassburg cathedral and _Goetz von Berlichingen_, two hurrahs for +gothic Germanic art against that of Greece and Rome. Later he +fought against Germanism and for Classicism. Goethe against Goethe! +There you see the traditional Olympic calm, harmony, etc., in the +greatest disharmony with itself. But depression at this turns into +uneasiness when the young Romantic school appears and combats the +Goethe of _Iphigenia_ with theories drawn from Goethe's _Goetz_. +That the 'great heathen' ends up by converting Faust in the Second +Part, and allowing him to be saved by the Virgin Mary and the +angels, is usually passed over in silence by his admirers. Also the +fact that a man of such clear vision should, towards the end of his +life, have found everything so 'strange,' and 'curious,' even the +simplest facts that he'd previously seen through. His last wish was +for 'more light'! Yes; but it doesn't matter. We're intelligent +people and love our Goethe just the same. + +STRANGER. And rightly. + +MELCHER. Number six in the catalogue. Voltaire! He has more than +two heads. The Godless One, who spent his whole life defending God. +The Mocker, who was mocked, because 'he believed in God like a +child.' The author of the cynical 'Candide,' who wrote: + + In my youth I sought the pleasures + Of the senses, but I learned + That their sweetness was illusion + Soon to bitterness it turned. + In old age I've come to see + Life is nought but vanity. + +Dr. Knowall, who thought he could grasp everything between Heaven +and Earth by means of reason and science, sings like this, when he +comes to the end of his life: + + I had thought to find in knowledge + Light to guide me on my way; + Yet I still must walk in darkness + All that's known must soon decay. + Ignorance, I turn to thee! + Knowledge is but vanity. + +But that's no matter! Voltaire can be put to many uses. The Jews +use him against the Christians, and the Christians use him against +the Jews, because he was an anti-Semite, like Luther. Chateaubriand +used him to defend Catholicism, and Protestants use him even to-day +to attack Catholicism. He was a fine fellow! + +STRANGER. Then what's your view? + +MELCHER. We have no views here; we've faith, as I've told you +already. And that's why we've only one head--placed exactly above +the heart. (Pause.) In the meantime let's look at number seven in +the catalogue. Ah, Napoleon! The creation of the Revolution itself! +The Emperor of the People, the Nero of Freedom, the suppressor of +Equality and the 'big brother' of Fraternity. He's the most cunning +of all the two-headed, for he could laugh at himself, raise himself +above his own contradictions, change his skin and his soul, and yet +be quite explicable to himself in every transformation--convinced, +self-authorised. There's only one other man who can be compared +with him in this; Kierkegaard the Dane. From the beginning he was +aware of this parthenogenesis of the soul, whose capacity to +multiply by taking cuttings was equivalent to bringing forth young +in this life without conception. And for that reason, and so as not +to become life's fool, he wrote under a number of pseudonyms, of +which each one constituted a 'stage on his life's way.' But did you +realise this? The Lord of life, in spite of all these precautions, +made a fool of him after all. Kierkegaard, who fought all his life +against the priesthood and the professional preachers of the State +Church, was eventually forced of necessity to become a professional +preacher himself! Oh yes! Such things do happen. + +STRANGER. The Powers That Be play tricks. ... + +MELCHER. The Powers play tricks on tricksters, and delude the +arrogant, particularly those who alone believe they possess truth +and knowledge! Number eight in the catalogue. Victor Hugo. He split +himself into countless parts. He was a peer of France, a Grandee of +Spain, a friend of Kings, and the socialist author of _Les +Miserables_. The peers naturally called him a renegade, and the +socialists a reformer. Number nine. Count Friedrich Leopold von +Stollberg. He wrote a fanatical book for the Protestants, and then +suddenly became a Catholic! Inexplicable in a sensible man. A +miracle, eh? A little journey to Damascus, perhaps? Number ten. +Lafayette. The heroic upholder of freedom, the revolutionary, who +was forced to leave France as a suspected reactionary, because he +wanted to help Louis XVI; and then was captured by the Austrians +and carried off to Olmuetz as a revolutionary! What was he in +reality? + +STRANGER. Both! + +MELCHER. Yes, both. He had the two halves that made a whole--a +whole man. Number eleven. Bismarck. A paradox. The honest diplomat, +who maintained he'd discovered that to tell the truth was the +greatest of ruses. And so was compelled--by the Powers, I suppose?-- +to spend the last six years of his life unmasking himself as a +conscious liar. You're tired. Then we'll stop now. + +STRANGER. Yes, if one clings to the same ideas all one's life, and +holds the same opinions, one grows old according to nature's laws, +and gets called conservative, old-fashioned, out of date. But if +one goes on developing, keeping pace with one's own age, renewing +oneself with the perennially youthful impulses of contemporary +thought, one's called a waverer and a renegade. + +MELCHER. That's as old as the world! But does an intelligent, man +heed what he's called? One is, what one's becoming. + +STRANGER. But who revises the periodically changing views of +contemporary opinion? + +MELCHER. You ought to answer that yourself, and indeed in this way. +It is the Powers themselves who promulgate contemporary opinion, as +they develop in _apparent_ circles. Hegel, the philosopher of the +present, himself dimorphous, for both a 'left'-minded and a +'right'-minded Hegel can always be quoted, has best explained the +contradictions of life, of history and of the spirit, with his own +magic formula. Thesis: affirmation; Antithesis: negation; +Synthesis: comprehension! Young man, or rather, comparatively young +man! You began life by accepting everything, then went on to +denying everything on principle. Now end your life by comprehending +everything. Be exclusive no longer. Do not say: either--or, but: +not only--but also! In a word, or two words rather, Humanity and +Resignation! + +Curtain. + + +SCENE III + +CHAPEL OF THE MONASTERY + +[Choir of the Monastery Chapel. An open coffin with a bier cloth +and two burning candles. The CONFESSOR leads in the STRANGER by the +hand. The STRANGER is dressed in the white shirt of the novice.] + +CONFESSOR. Have you carefully considered the step you wish to take? + +STRANGER. Very carefully. + +CONFESSOR. Have you no more questions? + +STRANGER. Questions? No. + +CONFESSOR. Then stay here, whilst I fetch the Chapter and the +Fathers and Brothers, so that the solemn act may begin. + +STRANGER. Yes. Let it come to pass. + +(The CONFESSOR goes out. The STRANGER, left alone, is sunk in +thought.) + +TEMPTER (coming forward). Are you ready? + +STRANGER. So ready, that I've no answer left for you. + +TEMPTER. On the brink of the grave, I understand! You'll have to +lie in your coffin and appear to die; the old Adam will be covered +with three shovelfuls of earth, and a De Profundis will be sung. +Then you'll rise again from the dead, having laid aside your old +name, and be baptized once more like a new-born child! What will +you be called? (The STRANGER does not reply.) It is written: +Johannes, brother Johannes, because he preached in the wilderness +and ... + +STRANGER. Do not trouble me. + +TEMPTER. Speak to me a little, before you depart into the long +silence. For you'll not be allowed to speak for a whole year. + +STRANGER. All the better. Speaking at last becomes a vice, like +drinking. And why speak, if words do not cloak thoughts? + +TEMPTER. _You_ at the graveside. ... Was life so bitter? + +STRANGER. Yes. My life was. + +TEMPTER. Did you never know one pleasure? + +STRANGER. Yes, many pleasures; but they were very brief and seemed +only to exist in order to make the pain of their loss the sharper. + +TEMPTER. Can't it be put the other way round: that pain exists in +order to make joy more keen? + +STRANGER. It can be put in any way. + +(A woman enters with a child to be baptized.) + +TEMPTER. Look! A little mortal, who's to be consecrated to +suffering. + +STRANGER. Poor child! + +TEMPTER. A human history, that's about to begin. (A bridal couple +cross the stage.) And there--what's loveliest, and most bitter. +Adam and Eve in Paradise, that in a week will be a Hell, and in a +fortnight Paradise again. + +STRANGER. What is loveliest, brightest! The first, the only, the +last that ever gave life meaning! I, too, once sat in the sunlight +on a verandah, in the spring beneath the first tree to show new +green, and a small crown crowned a head, and a white veil lay like +thin morning mist over a face ... that was not that of a human +being. Then came darkness! + +TEMPTER. Whence? + +STRANGER. From the light itself. I know no more. + +TEMPTER. It could only have been a shadow, for light is needed to +throw shadows; but for darkness no light is needed. + +STRANGER. Stop! Or we'll never come to an end. + +(The CONFESSOR and the CHAPTER appear in procession.) + +TEMPTER (disappearing). Farewell! + +CONFESSOR (advancing with a large black bier-cloth). Lord! Grant +him eternal peace! + +CHOIR. May he be illumined with perpetual light! + +CONFESSOR (wrapping the STRANGER to the bier-cloth). May he rest in +peace! + +CHOIR. Amen! + +Curtain. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Road to Damascus, by August Strindberg + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ROAD TO DAMASCUS *** + +This file should be named 7rddm10.txt or 7rddm10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, 7rddm11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, 7rddm10a.txt + +Produced by Nicole Apostola + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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