THE ROAD TO DAMASCUS

A TRILOGY

By August Strindberg

English Version By Graham Rawson

With An Introduction By Gunnar Ollén

CONTENTS

 INTRODUCTION PART ONE PART TWO PART THREE

INTRODUCTION

Strindberg's great trilogy _The Road to Damascus_ presents manymysteries to the uninitiated. Its peculiar changes of mood, its galleryof half unreal characters, its bizarre episodes combine to make it abewilderingly rich but rather 'difficult' work. It cannot be recommendedto the lover of light drama or the seeker of momentary distraction. _TheRoad to Damascus_ does not deal with the superficial strata of humanlife, 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 problemsof humanity without, on that account, having been able to evoke ourinterest. There may have been too much philosophy and too little art inthe presentation of the subject, too little reality and too much soaringinto the heights. That is not so with Strindberg's drama. It is atrenchant settling of accounts between a complex and fascinatingindividual--the author--and his past, and the realistic scenes haveoften been transplanted in detail from his own changeful life. 

In order fully to understand _The Road to Damascus_ it is thereforeessential to know at least the most important features of thatbackground of real life, out of which the drama has grown. 

Parts I and II of the trilogy were written in 1898, while Part III wasadded somewhat later, in the years 1900-1901. In 1898 Strindberg hadonly half emerged from what was by far the severest of the many crisesthrough which in his troubled life he had to pass. He had overcomethe worst period of terror, which had brought him dangerously near theborders of sanity, and he felt as if he could again open his eyes andbreathe freely. He was not free from that nervous pressure under whichhe had been working, but the worst of the inner tension had relaxed andhe felt the need of taking a survey of what had happened, of summarisingand trying to fathom what could have been underlying his apparentlyunaccountable experiences. The literary outcome of this settling ofaccounts with the past was _The Road to Damascus_. 

_The Road to Damascus_ might be termed a marriage drama, a mysterydrama, or a drama of penance and conversion, according as preponderanceis given to one or other of its characteristics. The question thenarises: what was it in the drama which was of deepest significance tothe author himself? The answer is to be found in the title, with itsallusion to the narrative in the Acts of the Apostles of the journey ofSaul, the persecutor, the scoffer, who, on his way to Damascus, had anawe-inspiring vision, which converted Saul, the hater of Christ, intoPaul, the apostle of the Gentiles. Strindberg's drama describes theprogress of the author right up to his conversion, shows how stage bystage he relinquishes worldly things, scientific renown, and above allwoman, and finally, when nothing more binds him to this world, takes thevows of a monk and enters a monastery where no dogmas or theology, butonly broadminded humanity and resignation hold sway. What, however, in an inner sense, distinguishes Strindberg's drama from the Biblenarrative is that the conversion itself--although what leads up to itis convincingly described, both logically and psychologically--doesnot bear the character of a final and irrevocable decision, but onthe contrary is depicted with a certain hesitancy and uncertainty. THESTRANGER'S entry into the monastery consequently gives the impression ofbeing a piece of logical construction; the author's heart is not whollyin it. From Strindberg's later works it also becomes evident that hissevere crisis had undoubtedly led to a complete reformation in that itdefinitely caused him to turn from worldly things, of which indeed hehad tasted to the full, towards matters divine. But this did notmean that then and there he accepted some specific religion, whetherChristian or other. One would undoubtedly come nearest to the author'sown interpretation in this respect by characterising _The Road toDamascus_ not as a drama of conversion, but as a drama of struggle, the story of a restless, arduous pilgrimage through the chimeras ofthe world towards the border beyond which eternity stretches in solemnpeace, symbolised in the drama by a mountain, the peaks of which reachhigh above the clouds. 

In this final settling of accounts one subject is of dominatingimportance, recurring again and again throughout the trilogy; it is thatof woman. Strindberg him, of course, become famous as a writer aboutwomen; he has ruthlessly described the hatreds of love, the hell thatmarriage 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 aworshipper of woman--and at the same time a diabolical hater of herseducing qualities under which he suffered defeat after defeat. Eachtime he fell in love afresh he would compare himself to Hercules, theTitan, whose strength was vanquished by Queen Omphale, who clothedherself in his lion's skin, while he had to sit at the spinning wheeldressed in women's clothes. It can be readily understood that to a manof Strindberg's self-conceit the problem of his relations with womenmust become a vital issue on the solution of which the whole Damascuspilgrimage depended. 

In 1898, when Parts I and II of the trilogy were written, Strindberghad been married twice; both marriages had ended unhappily. In the year1901, when the wedding scenes of Part III were written, Strindberg hadrecently experienced the rapture of a new love which, however, was soonto be clouded. It must not be forgotten that in his entire emotionallife Strindberg was an artist and as such a man of impulse, with thespontaneity and naivity and intensity of a child. For him love hadnothing to do with respectability and worldly calculations; he liked tothink of it as a thunderbolt striking mortals with a destructive forcelike the lightning hurled by the almighty Zeus. It is easy to understandthat a man of such temperament would not be particularly suited formarried life, where self-sacrifice and strong-minded patience may beseverely tested. In addition his three wives were themselves artists, one an authoress, the other two actresses, all of them pronouncedcharacters, endowed with a degree of will and self-assertion, which, although it could not be matched against Strindberg's, yet would havebeen capable of producing friction with rather more pliant natures thanthat of the Swedish dramatist. 

In the trilogy Strindberg's first wife, Siri von Essen, his marriage towhom was happiest and lasted longest (1877-1891), and more especiallyhis second wife, the Austrian authoress Frida Uhl (married to him1893-1897) have supplied the subject matter for his picture of THE LADY. In the happy marriage scenes of Part III we recognise reminiscences fromthe wedding of Strindberg, then fifty-two, and the twenty-three-year-oldactress Harriet Bosse, whose marriage to him lasted from 1901 until1904. 

The character of THE LADY in Parts I and II is chiefly drawn fromrecollections--fairly recent when the drama was written--of FridaUhl and his life with her. From the very beginning her marriage toStrindberg had been most troublous. In the autumn of 1892 Strindbergmoved from the Stockholm skerries to Berlin, where he lived a ratherhectic Bohemian life among the artists collecting in the little tavern'Zum Schwarzen Ferkel. ' He made the acquaintance of Frida Uhl in thebeginning of the year 1893, and after a good many difficulties was ableto 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 peacefulhoneymoon; quite soon the couple departed to Gravesend via Hamburg. Strindberg was too restless to stay there and moved on to London. Therehe left his wife to try to negotiate for the production of his plays, and journeyed alone to Sellin, on the island of Rügen, after havingfirst been compelled to stop in Hamburg owing to lack of money. Strindberg stayed on Rügen during the month of July, and then left forthe 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 onthe journey from London, Strindberg impatiently departed for Berlin, where Frida Uhl followed shortly after. About the same time an actionwas brought for the suppression of the German version of _Le Plaidoyerd'un Fou_ as being immoral. This book gives an undisguised, intenselypersonal picture of Strindberg's first marriage, and was intended by himfor publication only after his death as a defence against accusationsdirected against him for his behaviour towards Siri von Essen. Strindberg was acquitted after a time, but before that his easily firedimagination had given him a thorough shake-up, which could only hastenthe crisis which seemed to be approaching. After a trip to Brünn, whereStrindberg wrote his scientific work _Antibarbarus_, the couple arrivedin November at the home of Frida Uhl's grandparents in the littlevillage of Dornach, by the Upper Danube; here the wanderings of 1893 atlast came to an end. For a few months comparative peace reigned in theartists' little home, but the birth of a daughter, Kerstin, in May, brought this tranquillity to a sudden end. Strindberg, who had lived ina state of nervous depression since the 1880's, felt himself put on oneside by the child, and felt ill at ease in an environment of, as he putit in the autobiographical _The Quarantine Master_, 'articles of food, excrements, wet-nurses treated like milch-cows, cooks and decayingvegetables. ' He longed for cleanliness and peace, and in letters toan artist friend he spoke of entering a monastery. He even thought offounding one himself in the Ardennes and drew up detailed schemes forrules, dress, and food. The longing to get away and common interestswith his Parisian friend (a musician named Leopold Littmansson)attracted Strindberg to Paris, where he settled down in the beginning ofthe autumn 1894. His wife joined him, but left again at the close of theautumn. In reality Strindberg was at this time almost impossible to livewith. Persecution mania and hallucinations took possession of him andhis morbid suspicions knew no bounds. In spite of this he was halfconscious that there was something wrong with his mental faculties, andin the beginning of 1895, assisted by the Swedish Minister, he went byhis own consent to the St. Louis Hospital in Paris. During his chemicalexperiments, in which among other things he tried to produce gold, hehad burnt his hands, so that he had to seek medical attention on thataccount also. He wrote about this in a letter:

'I am going to hospital because I am ill, because my doctor has sent methere, and because I need to be looked after like a child, because Iam ruined. .. . And it torments me and grieves me, my nervous system isrotten, paralytic, hysterical. .. . '

Never before had Strindberg lived in such distress as at this period, both physically and mentally. With shattered nerves, sometimes overthe verge of insanity, without any means of existence other than whatfriends managed to scrape together, separated from his second wife, whohad opened proceedings for divorce, far from his native land and withoutany prospects for the future, he was brought to a profound religiouscrisis. With almost incredible fortitude he succeeded in fighting hisway through this difficult period, with the remarkable result that theformer Bohemian, atheist, and scoffer was gradually able to emerge withthe firm assurance of a prophet, and even enter a new creative period, perhaps mightier than before. One cannot help reflecting that a mancapable of overcoming a crisis of such a formidable character and ofseveral years' duration, as this one of Strindberg's had been, withreason intact and even with increased creative power, in reality, inspite of his hypersensitive nervous system, must have been an unusuallystrong man both physically and mentally. 

Upon trying to define more closely what actual relation the play hasto those events of Strindberg's restless life, of which we have given arough outline, we find that for the most part the author has undoubtedlymade use of his own experiences, but has adapted, combined and added tothem still more, so that the result is a mixture of real experience andimagination, all moulded into a carefully worked out artistic form. 

If to begin with, we dwell for a while on Part I it is evident thatthe hurried wanderings of THE STRANGER and THE LADY between the streetcorner, the room in the hotel, the sea and the Rose Room with themother-in-law, have their foundation--often in detail--in Strindberg'srovings with Frida Uhl. I will give a few examples. In a book by FridaUhl about her marriage to the Swedish genius (splendid in parts but notvery reliable) she recalls that the month before her marriage she tookrooms at Neustädtische Kirchstrasse 1, in Berlin, facing a Gothic churchin Dorotheenstrasse, situated at the cross-roads between the postoffice in Dorotheenstrasse and the café 'Zum Schwarzen Ferkel' inWilhelmstrasse. This Berlin environment appears to be almost exactlyreproduced in the introductory scene of Part I, where THE STRANGER andTHE LADY meet outside a little Gothic church with a post office andcafé adjoining. The happy scenes by the sea are, of course, pleasantrecollections from Heligoland, and the many discussions about moneymatters in the midst of the honeymoon are quite explicable when we knowhow the dramatist was continually haunted by money troubles, evenif occasionally he received a big fee, and that this very financialinsecurity was one of the chief reasons why Frida Uhl's father opposedthe marriage. Again, the country scenes which follow in Part I, shiftto the hilly country round the Danube, with their Catholic Calvariesand expiation chapels, where Strindberg lived with his parents-in-law inMondsee and with his wife's grandparents in Dornach and the neighbouringvillage Klam, with its mill, its smithy, and its gloomy ravine. The RoseRoom was the name he gave to the room in which he lived during his staywith his mother-in-law and his daughter Kerstin in Klam in the autumnof 1896, as he has himself related in one of his autobiographical books_Inferno_. In this way we could go on, showing how the localities whichare to be met with in the drama often correspond in detail to the placesStrindberg had visited in the course of his pilgrimage during the years1893-1898. Space prevents us, however, from entering on a more detailedanalysis in this respect. 

That THE STRANGER represents Strindberg's _alter ego_ is evident in manyways, even apart from the fact that THE STRANGER'S wanderings from placeto place, as we have already seen, bear a direct relation to those ofStrindberg himself. THE STRANGER is an author, like Strindberg; hischildhood of hate is Strindberg's own; other details--such as forinstance that THE STRANGER has refused to attend his father's funeral, that the Parish Council has wanted to take his child away from him, thaton account of his writings he has suffered lawsuits, illness, poverty, exile, divorce; that in the police description he is characterised asa person without a permanent situation, with uncertain income; married, but had deserted his wife and left his children; known as entertainingsubversive opinions on social questions (by _The Red Room_, _The NewRealm_ and other works Strindberg became the great standard-bearerof the Swedish Radicals in their campaign against conventionalismand bureaucracy); that he gives the impression of not being in fullpossession of his senses; that he is sought by his children's guardianbecause of unpaid maintenance allowance--everything corresponds to theexperiences of the unfortunate Strindberg himself, with all his bitterdefeats in life and his triumphs in the world of letters. 

Those scenes where THE STRANGER is uncertain whether the people he seesbefore him are real or not--he catches hold of THE BEGGAR'S arm to feelwhether he is a real, live person--or those occasions when he appearsas a visionary or thought-reader--he describes the kitchen in his wife'sparental home without ever having seen it, and knows her thoughts beforeshe has expressed them--have their deep foundation in Strindberg'smental make-up, especially as it was during the period of tension in themiddle of the 1890's, termed the Inferno period, because at that timeStrindberg thought that he lived in hell. Our most prominent studentof Strindberg, Professor Martin Lamm, wrote about this in his work onStrindberg's dramas:

'In order to understand the first part of _The Road to Damascus_ wemust take into consideration that the author had not yet shaken off histerrifying visions and persecutionary hallucinations. He can play withthem artistically, sometimes he feels tempted to make a joke of them, but they still retain for him their "terrifying semi-reality. " It isthis which makes the drama so bewildering, but at the same time sovigorous and affecting. Later, when depicting dream states, he createsan artful blend of reality and poetry. He produces more exquisite worksof art, but he no longer gives the same anguished impression of a soulstriving to free itself from the meshes of his _idées 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 Engström, has told how one evening duringa stay far out in the Stockholm skerries, far from all civilisation, Strindberg suddenly had a feeling that his little daughter was ill, andwanted to return to town at once. True enough, it turned out thatthe girl had fallen ill just at the time when Strindberg had felt thewarning. As regards thought-reading, it appears that at the slightestchange in expression and often for no perceptible reason at all, Strindberg would draw the most definite conclusions, as definite asfrom an uttered word or an action. This we have to keep in mind, forinstance, when judging Strindberg's accusations against his wife in _LePlaidoyer 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 THESTRANGER discuss this thought-reading problem with his first wife. THESTRANGER says:

'We made a mistake when we were living together, because we accusedeach other of wicked thoughts before they'd become actions; and lived inmental reservations instead of realities. For instance, I once noticedhow you enjoyed the defiling gaze of a strange man, and I accused you ofunfaithfulness';

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 allessentials of Strindberg's second wife, Frida Uhl. Like the latter THELADY is a Catholic, has a grandfather, Dr. Cornelius Reisch--called THEOLD MAN in the drama--whose passion is shooting; and a mother, MariaUhl, with a predilection for religious discourses in Strindberg's ownstyle; another detail, the fact that she was eighteen years old beforeshe crossed to the other shore to see what had shimmered dimly in thedistant haze, corresponds with Frida Uhl's statement that she had beenconfined in a convent until she was eighteen and a half years old. On the other hand, the chief female character of the drama does notcorrespond to her real life counterpart in that she is supposed to havebeen married to a doctor before eloping with THE STRANGER, Strindberg. Here reminiscences from Strindberg's first marriage play a part. Sirivon Essen, Strindberg's first wife, was married to an officer, BaronWrangel, and both the Wrangels received Strindberg kindly in their homeas a friend. Love quickly flared up between Siri von Essen-Wrangeland Strindberg. She obtained a divorce from her husband and marriedStrindberg. Baron von Wrangel shortly afterwards married again, a cousinof Siri von Essen. Knowing these matrimonial complications we understandhow Strindberg must have felt when, on the point of leaving forHeligoland to marry Frida Uhl, he met his former wife's (Siri von Essen)first husband, Baron Wrangel, on Lehrter Station in Berlin, and foundthat, like Strindberg himself, he was on a lover's errand. Knowing allthis we need not be surprised at the extremely complicated matrimonialrelations in _The Road to Damascus_, where, for example, for the sakeof THE STRANGER, THE DOCTOR obtains a divorce from THE LADY in order tomarry THE STRANGER'S first wife. In addition to Baron Wrangel a doctorin the town of Ystad, in the south of Sweden--Dr. Eliasson who attendedStrindberg during his most difficult period--has stood as a model forTHE DOCTOR. We note in particular that the description of the doctor'shouse enclosing a courtyard on three sides, tallies with a type ofbuilding which is characteristic of the south of Sweden. When THE DOCTORruthlessly explains to THE STRANGER that the asylum, 'The Good Help, 'was not a hospital but a lunatic asylum, he expresses Strindberg's ownmisgivings that the St. Louis Hospital, of which, as mentioned above, Strindberg was an inmate in the beginning of the year 1895, was reallyto be regarded as a lunatic asylum. 

Even minor characters, such as CAESAR and THE BEGGAR have theircounterparts in real life, even though in the main they are fantasticcreations of his imagination. The guardian of his daughter, Kerstin, arelative of Frida Uhl's, was called Dr. Cäsar R. V. Weyr. Regarding THEBEGGAR it may be enough to quote Strindberg's feelings when confrontedwith the collections made by his Paris friends:

'I am a beggar who has no right to go to cafés. Beggar! That is theright 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 manageraddressed me as Dear Master; journalists strove to interview me, thephotographer begged to be allowed to sell my portrait. And now: abeggar, 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 heis himself the beggar. 

We have thus seen that Part I of _The Road to Damascus_ is at the sametime a free creation of fantasy and a drama of portrayal. The elementsof realism are starkly manifest, but they are moulded and hammered intoa work of art by a force of combinative imagination rising far abovethe task of mere descriptive realism. The scenes unroll themselves incalculated sequence up to the central asylum picture, from there toreturn in reverse order through the second half of the drama, thussymbolising life's continuous repetition of itself, Kierkegaard's_Gentagelse_. The first part of _The Road to Damascus_ is the one mostfrequently produced on the stage. This is understandable, having regardto its firm structure and the consistency of its faith in a Providencedirecting the fortunes and misfortunes of man, whether the individualrages in revolt or submits in quiet resignation. 

The second part of _The Road to Damascus_ is dominated by the scenes ofthe great alchemist banquet which, in all its fantastic oddity, isone of the most suggestive ever created on the ancient theme of thefickleness of fortune. It was suggested above that there were twofactors beyond all others binding Strindberg to the world and making himhesitate before the monastery; one was woman, from whom he sets himselffree in Part II, after the birth of a child--precisely as in hismarriage to Frida Uhl--the other was scientific honour, in its highestphase equivalent, to Strindberg, to the power to produce gold. Countlesswere the experiments for this purpose made by Strindberg in hisprimitive laboratories, and countless his failures. To the world-famousauthor, literary honour meant little as opposed to the slightestprospect of being acknowledged as a prominent scientist. Harriet Bossehas told me that Strindberg seldom said anything about his literarywork, never was interested in what other people thought of them, ortroubled to read the reviews; but on the other hand he would often, withsparkling eyes and childish pride, show her strips of paper, stained atone end with some golden-brown substance. 'Look, ' he said, 'this ispure gold, and I have made it!' In face of the stubborn scepticism ofscientific experts Strindberg was, however, driven to despair as to hisability, and felt his dreams of fortune shattered, as did THE STRANGERat the macabre banquet given in his honour--a banquet which was, as amatter of fact, planned by his Paris friends, not, as Strindberg wouldhave liked to believe, in honour of the great scientist, but to thegreat author. 

In Part I of _The Road to Damascus_, THE STRANGER replies with ahesitating 'Perhaps' when THE LADY wants to lead him to the protectingChurch; and at the end of Part II he exclaims: 'Come, priest, before Ichange my mind'; but in Part III his decision is final, he enters themonastery. The reason is that not even THE LADY in her third incarnationhad shown herself capable of reconciling him to life. The wedding dayscenes just before, between Harriet Bosse and the ageing author, form, however, the climax of Part III and are among the most poetically movingthat Strindberg has ever written. 

Besides having his belief in the rapture of love shattered, THESTRANGER also suffers disappointment at seeing his child fall short ofexpectations. The meeting between the daughter Sylvia and THE STRANGERprobably refers to an episode from the summer of 1899, when Strindberg, after long years of suffering in foreign countries, saw his belovedSwedish skerries again, and also his favourite daughter Greta, who hadcome over from Finland to meet him. Contrary to the version given in thedrama, the reunion of father and daughter seems to have been very happyand cordial. However, it is typical of the fate-oppressed Strindbergthat in his work even the happiest summer memories become tinged withblack. Once and for all the dark colours on his palette were the mostintense. 

The final entry into the monastery was more a symbol for the strugglingauthor's dream of peace and atonement than a real thing in his life. Itis true he visited the Benedictine monastery, Maredsous, in Belgium in1898, and its well stocked library came to play a certain part In thedrama, but already he realised, after one night's sojourn there, that hehad no call for the monastic life. 

Seen as a whole the trilogy marks a turning point in Strindberg'sdramatic production. The logical, calculated concentration of hisnaturalistic work of the 1880's has given way to a freer form ofcomposition, in which the atmosphere has come to mean more than thedialogue, the musical and dreamlike qualities more than conciseness. _The Road to Damascus_ abounds with details from real life, reproducedin sharply naturalistic manner, but these are not, as things were inhis earlier works viewed by the author _a priori_ as reality but becomewrapped in dreamlike mystery. Just as with _Lady Julia_ and _The Father_Strindberg ushered in the naturalistic drama of the 1880's, so in theyears around the turn of the century he was, with his symbolist cycle_The Road to Damascus_, to break new ground for European drama which hadgradually become stuck in fixed formulas. _The Road to Damascus_ becamea landmark in world literature both as a brilliant work of art and asbearer of new stage technique. 

GUNNAR OLLÉN

Translated by ESTHER JOHANSON

THE ROAD TO DAMASCUS

PART I. 

English Version by Graham Rawson

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

First Performance in England by the Stage Society at the WestminsterTheatre, 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 GothicChurch nearby; also a post office and a café with chairs outside it. Both post office and café are shut. A funeral march is heard off, growing louder sand then fainter. A STRANGER is standing on the edgeof the pavement and seems uncertain which way to go. A church clockstrikes: 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, butstops. ]

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 forsomething: I believe they call it happiness; or the end of unhappiness. (Pause. ) There's that terrible music again. Listen! But don't go, I begyou. 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 thataccount. 

STRANGER. I know that well enough. But I beg you not to leave me. I'm astranger here, without friends; and my few acquaintances seem more likeenemies. 

LADY. You have enemies everywhere. You're lonely everywhere. Why did youleave your wife and children?

STRANGER. I wish I knew. I wish I knew why I still live; why I'm herenow; where I should go and what I should do! Do you believe that theliving 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 totempt me to prolong my miseries. If ripe fruit fell into my hand, it waspoisoned 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 Ihold 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 inspite of my melancholy temperament I've never been able to take anythingseriously--not even my worst troubles. Sometimes I even doubt whetherlife itself has had any more reality than my books. (A De Profundis isheard from the funeral procession. ) They're coming back. Why must theyprocess up and down these streets?

LADY. Do you fear them?

STRANGER. They annoy me. The place might be bewitched. No, it's notdeath I fear, but solitude; for then one's not alone. I don't know who'sthere, I or another, but in solitude one's not alone. The air growsheavy and seems to engender invisible beings, who have life and whosepresence 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 Iperceive ideas and meanings. Life, that once had no meaning, has begunto have one. Now I discern intention where I used to see nothing butchance. (Pause. ) When I met you yesterday it struck me you'd been sentacross 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 feltfor you. .. . Never, in all my life, have I met anyone like you. I haveonly to look at you for the tears to start to my eyes. Tell me, whathave you on your conscience? Have you done something wrong, that's neverbeen discovered or punished?

STRANGER. You may well ask! No, I've no more sins on my conscience thanother free men. Except this: I determined that life should never make afool 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 outof. (Pause. ) I've another secret. It's whispered in the family that I'ma 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 tolife in this world. I hated my parents, as they hated me. I brooked noconstraint, no conventions, no laws, and my longing was for the woodsand the sea. 

LADY. Did you ever see visions?

STRANGER. Never. But I've often thought that two beings were guidingmy destiny. One offers me all I desire; but the other's ever at handto bespatter the gifts with filth, so that they're useless to me andI can't touch them. It's true that life has given me all I asked ofit--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 transcendthis 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 sitdown?

LADY. Yes. Who are you waiting for?

STRANGER. Really, for the post office to open. There's a letter forme--it's been forwarded on but hasn't reached me. (They sit down. ) Buttell 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 tochristen you myself--let me see, what ought you to be called? I've gotit. Eve! (With a gesture towards the wings. ) Trumpets! (The funeralmarch 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--soyou were born in sixty-four. (Pause. ) Now your character, for I don'tknow that either. I shall give you a good character, your voice remindsme of my mother--I mean the idea of a mother, for my mother nevercaressed me, though I can remember her striking me. You see, I wasbrought up in hate! An eye for an eye--a tooth for a tooth. You see thisscar on my forehead? That comes from a blow my brother gave me withan axe, after I'd struck him with a stone. I never went to my father'sfuneral, 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 mourningfor an uncle who had taken his life. Now you know my family! That'sthe stock I come from. Once I narrowly escaped fourteen years' hardlabour--so I've every reason to thank the elves, though I can't bealtogether pleased with what they've done. 

LADY. I like to hear you talk. But don't speak of the elves: it makes mesad. 

STRANGER. Frankly, I don't believe in them; yet they're always makingthemselves felt. Are these elves the souls of the unhappy, who stillawait redemption? If so, I am the child of an evil spirit. Once Ibelieved I was near redemption--through a woman. But no mistake couldhave 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 whenhe 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 yourgifts?

STRANGER. I've been blamed for everything. In the town I lived in no onewas so hated as I. Lonely I came in and lonely I went out. If I entereda public place people avoided me. If I wanted to rent a room, it wouldbe let. The priests laid a ban on me from the pulpit, teachers fromtheir desks and parents in their homes. The church committee wantedto take my children from me. Then I blasphemously shook my fist. .. Atheaven!

LADY. Why did they hate you so?

STRANGER. How should I know! Yet I do! I couldn't endure to see mensuffer. So I kept on saying, and writing, too: free yourselves, I willhelp 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 theyare unjust. What followed was impossible to foresee. I found thateveryone was against me: rich and poor, men and women, parents andchildren. And then came sickness and poverty, beggary and shame, divorce, law-suits, exile, solitude, and now. .. . Tell me, do you thinkme 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 somethinggiven 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 oldblind father, whom you could lead to the market place to sing for hisbread. My tragedy is I cannot grow old that's what happens to childrenof the elves, they have big heads and never only cry. I wish I weresomeone's dog. I could follow him and never be alone again. I'd get ameal 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 takesoff his hat and wipes his forehead. Then he draws on the ground with hisstick. A BEGGAR enters. He has a strange look and is collecting objectsfrom 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 comesafterwards--when it's too late. Virtus post nummos!

STRANGER. What? Do beggars know Latin?

BEGGAR. You see, you're interested already. Omne tulit punctum quimiscuit utile dulci. I have always succeeded in everything I'veundertaken, because I've never attempted anything. I should like to callmyself Polycrates, who found the gold ring in the fish's stomach. Lifehas given me all I asked of it. But I never asked anything; I grew tiredof 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 defaultof 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 temptme to take the words out of your mouth. And that's the same thing aspicking 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? (Hetouches his arm. ) There's no doubt of it. .. . Would you deign to accepta small coin in return for a promise to seek Polycrates' ring in anotherpart of the town? (He hands him a coin. ) Post nummos virtus. .. . Anotherecho. You must go at once. 

BEGGAR. I will. But you've given me far too much. I'll returnthree-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 beparticular. 

STRANGER. Then let me tell you you forget yourself. .. 

BEGGAR. Only too pleased! But when we meet again I'll have a word ofwelcome 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 dinnerof roast beef, cabbage and watery potatoes. Now the older people aretesting, the younger playing chess and smoking. The servants have goneto church and the shops are shut. This frightful afternoon, this day ofrest, when there's nothing to engage the soul, when it's as hard to meeta friend as to get into a wine shop. (The LADY comes back again, sheis noun wearing a flower at her breast. ) Strange! I can't speak withoutbeing contradicted at once!

LADY. So you're still here?

STRANGER. Whether I sit here, or elsewhere, and write in the sanddoesn'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 amandragora. Its symbolical meaning is malice and calumny; but it wasonce 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 mefreedom 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 happenedto Bluebeard's wife when curiosity tempted her into the forbiddenchamber. .. . 

LADY. You see, already you make demands like those of a Bluebeard. Whatyou don't see, or have long since forgotten, is that I'm married, andthat my husband's a doctor, and that he admires your work. So that hishouse 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 mymemory 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 sometimeshave--though not often. It's the one thing life has capriciously refusedme, perhaps because I never desired it intensely enough. (The LADYshakes 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! Itwon'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 intothe firmament, where she what has never yet been seen, and hears whatmen never yet heard. .. . 

LADY. And the day after?

STRANGER. I have the most delightful scruples of conscience! Iexperience the purifying emotions of guilt and repentance. I enjoy thesufferings 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 spiritfeels that she has already opened her pinions and could fly aloft, ifshe would. 

LADY. Come into the church for a moment. You'll hear no sermon, only thebeautiful music of vespers. 

STRANGER. No. Not into church! It depresses me because I feel I don'tbelong there. .. . That I'm an unhappy soul and that it's as impossiblefor 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 piecesand were being slowly melted in Medea's cauldron. Either I shall be sentto the soap-boilers, or arise renewed from my own dripping! It dependson Medea's skill!

LADY. That sounds like the word of an oracle. We must see if you can'tbecome a child again. 

STRANGER. We should have to start with the cradle; and this time withthe right child. 

LADY. Exactly! Wait here for me whilst I go into the church. If the caféwere 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 themcarries a banner with the insignia of the Carpenters, draped in browncrępe; another a large axe decorated with spruce, a third a cushion witha chairman's mallet. They stop outside the café 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 thewoodwork 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-watchbeetle. 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 workmiracles? In that case I'd better explain that my nerves are good, andthat I don't believe in miracles. But I do find it strange that themourners wear brown. Why not black? It's cheap and suitable. 

THIRD MOURNER. To us, in our simplicity, it looks black; but if YourHonour wishes it, it shall look brown to you. 

STRANGER. A queer company! They give me an uneasy feeling I'd like toascribe to the wine I drank yesterday. If I were to ask if that werespruce, you'd probably say--well what?

FIRST MOURNER. Vine leaves. 

STRANGER. I thought it would not be spruce! The café's opening, at last!(The Café 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 berid of him, if the mourners start drinking as soon as the funeral'sover. 

FIRST MOURNER. He was a good-for-nothing, who couldn't take lifeseriously. 

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 sowell 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! (TheMOURNERS whisper together. The BEGGAR comes back. ) Here's the beggaragain!

BEGGAR (sitting down at a table). Wine. Moselle!

LANDLORD (consulting a police last). I can't serve you: you've not paidyour taxes. Here's your name, age and profession, and the decision ofthe court. 

BEGGAR. Omnia serviliter pro dominatione! I'm a free man with auniversity education. I refused to pay taxes because I didn't want tobecome a member of parliament. Moselle!

LANDLORD. You'll get free transport to the poor house, if you don't getout. 

STRANGER. Couldn't you gentlemen settle this somewhere else. You'redisturbing your patrons. 

LANDLORD. You can witness I'm in the right. 

STRANGER. No. The whole thing's too distressing. Even without payingtaxes 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 ifthe description tallies: thirty-eight, brown hair, moustache, blue eyes;no settled employment, means unknown; married, but has deserted his wifeand children; well known for revolutionary views on social questions:gives impression he is not in full possession of his faculties. .. . Itfits!

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 clearout. 

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 thecoloured rose window above the church door, which is now opened, disclosing the interior. The organ is heard and the choir singing AveMaris Stella. )

LADY (coming from the church). Where are you? What are you doing? Whydid 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 naturalexplanation. 

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 resemblesme?

LADY. He will, if you go on drinking. Now go to the post office and getyour 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 momentI feel a higher power is sitting in judgment on us and has made adecision. 

STRANGER. You feel that, too! I heard the hammer fall just now; and thechairs being pushed back. The clerk's being sent to find me! Oh, thesuspense! No, I can't follow you. 

LADY. Tell me, what have you done to me? In the church I found Icouldn't pray. A light on the altar was extinguished and an icy windblew 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; andI'm afraid of you. .. . 

STRANGER. When I'm alone I've no strength at all; but if I can finda single companion I grow strong. I shall be strong now; and so I'llfollow 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, defeatingwerewolves--that is Life!

LADY. Then come, my liberator!

(She draws her veil over her face, kisses him on the mouth and hurriesout. The STRANGER stands where he is for a moment, surprised andstunned. A loud chord sung by women's voices, rather like a cry, isheard from the church. The rose window suddenly grows dark and the treeabove the seat is shaken by the wind. The MOURNERS rise and look at thesky, as if they could see something terrifying. The STRANGER hurries outafter the LADY. )

SCENE II

DOCTOR'S HOUSE

[Courtyard enclosed on three sides by a single-storied house with atiled roof. Small windows in all three façades. Right, verandah withglass doors. Left, climbing roses and bee-hives outside the windows. Inthe middle of the courtyard a woodpile in the form of a cupola. A wellbeside it. The top of a walnut tree is seen above the central façadeof the house. In the corner, right, a garden gate. By the well a largetortoise. On right, entrance below to a wine-cellar. An ice-chest anddust-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 andoften wished to meet him. Now he's coming, you say. Where did Ingeborgmeet him?

SISTER. In town, it seems. Probably in some literary _salon_. 

DOCTOR. I've often wondered whether this man was the boy of the samename who was my friend at school. I hope not; for he seemed one thatfortune would treat harshly. And in a life-time he'll have given hisunhappy 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 beforethis spectre, and call him fate?

DOCTOR. Life has taught me to. I've wasted time and energy in fightingthe inevitable. 

SISTER. But why allow your wife to behave like this? She'll compromiseyou both. 

DOCTOR. You think so? Because, when I made her break off her engagementI held out false hopes to her of a life of freedom, instead of theslavery she'd known. Besides, I could never love her if I were in aposition 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 destroyyou? If you only knew how I hate that man. 

DOCTOR. I do. His last book's terrible; and shows a certain lack ofmental 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 contactwith 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 isheard. ) What was that?

SISTER. Your nerves are on edge. It's only the steamer. (Pause. ) Now, Iimplore you, go away!

DOCTOR. I ought to want to; but I'm held fast. (Pause. ) From here I cansee his portrait in my study. The sunlight throws a shadow on it thatchanges it completely. It makes him look like. .. . Horrible! You see whatI 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. Howoften have I tried to fly, and not been able to. It's as if the earthwere iron and I a compass needle. If misfortune comes, it's not of myfee 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 myboyhood. 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 thepractice is going down. 

LADY (kindly). I'm sorry. Tell me, oughtn't that woodpile to be takeninto the house? It only draws the damp. 

DOCTOR (without reproach). Yes, and the bees should be killed, too; andthe 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 makeshim look younger than before. He has an air of forced candour. He seemsto 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 rainedfor 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 countrydull. 

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 firstwith 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 cansee how a country doctor lives!

STRANGER. If you could guess what the life of a so-called liberator'slike, 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 knowwhether I've heard it or not. 

DOCTOR. Do you suffer from hallucinations?

STRANGER. No. But I'm pursued by trivial incidents. Can't you hearanyone 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 theverandah. )

STRANGER (to the LADY). I'm stifling here. I can't pass a night underthis roof. Your husband looks like a werewolf and in his presence youturn into a pillar of salt. Murder has been done in this house; theplace 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 giveshade in summer. It's like the prophet's gourd. But in the autumn itmust 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 purposelessnessof nature. He thinks it foolish for hellebore to grow in the snow andfreeze; so he puts the plants in the cellar and beds them out in thespring. 

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. Butif 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 pullsout an arm and leg. ) Look here. 

STRANGER. No. Too much like Bluebeard!

DOCTOR (sharply). What do you mean by that? (Looking at the LADY. ) Doyou 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 whereneither 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 painfulhalf-hour. We exchange the merest commonplaces, because none of us hasthe courage to say what he thinks. I suffered so that the idea came tome of opening my veins to get relief. But now I'd like to tell him thetruth and have done with it. Shall we say to his face that we mean to goaway, and that you've had enough of his foolishness?

LADY. If you talk like that I'll begin to hate you. You must behaveunder any circumstances. 

STRANGER. How well brought up you are! (The DOCTOR now becomes visibleto the STRANGER and the LADY, who continue their conversation. ) Comeaway with me, before the sun goes down. (Pause. ) Tell me, why did youkiss 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 wearsa 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 atschool 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 socorrupt. 

(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 knowwhich 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 youspeak. 

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 thecellar. (He goes out with the MADMAN. )

STRANGER (to the LADY). What does that mean? Someone's pursuing me! Youtold 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 likea goad. Then this funeral march. .. It's really being played! And here, once more, Christmas roses! Why does everything follow in an eternalround? Dead bodies, beggars, madmen, human destinies and childhoodmemories? Come away. Let me free you from this hell. 

LADY. That's why I brought you here. Also that it could never be saidyou'd stolen the wife of another. But one thing I must ask you: can Iput my trust in you?

STRANGER. You mean in my feelings?

LADY. I don't speak of them. We're taking them for granted. They'llendure as long as they'll endure. 

STRANGER. You mean in my position? Large sums are owed me. All I have todo is to write or telegraph. .. . 

LADY. Then I will trust you. (Putting away her work. ) Now go straightout of that door. Follow the syringa hedge till you find a gate. We'llmeet in the next village. 

STRANGER (hesitating). I don't like leaving the back way. I'd ratherhave 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 towardsthe 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 chairwithout 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 notmarried, 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. .. . Someonemust 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'tmatter where. 

STRANGER. I should like to. But after this terrible time I'm as tired asyou are. I felt this was to be our journey's end. I resisted, I tried togo 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 whatI 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. (Lookingat two pictures. ) There he is again. And that's the Hotel Breuer inMontreux. 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 fiveletters and three telegrams I found a telegram saying that my publisherhad 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 longerbelieve 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 itwith us. Look at this carpet. Those flowers seem to form. .. . 

STRANGER. Him! It's him. He's everywhere. How many hundred times hashe. .. . 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--theneverything 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 anadventurer, 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, andyou me! We could never respect one another again. 

STRANGER. It would be worse than death. Yet I feel it's inevitable, andI 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 yourpresence. We must find another way. If only we were married--and divorcewould be easy, because my former marriage isn't recognised by the lawsof the country in which it was contracted. .. . All we need do is to goaway and be married by the same priest. .. But that would be wounding foryou!

STRANGER. It would match the rest! For this honeymoon's becoming apilgrimage!

LADY. You're right! The landlord will be here in five minutes to turn usout. There's only one way to end such humiliations. Of our own free willwe must accept the worst. .. . I can hear footsteps!

STRANGER. I've foreseen this and am ready. Ready for everything. If Ican't overcome the unseen, I can show you how much I can endure. .. . Youmust 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 asambitious 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 andservants. Red with shame and pale with indignation. Animals have theirlairs to hide in, but we are forced to flaunt our shame. (Pause. ) Letdown 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. TheSTRANGER and the LADY are dressed in less sombre clothing and lookyounger than in the previous scene. The LADY is doing crochet work. ]

STRANGER. Three peaceful happy days at my wife's side, and anxietyreturns!

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 feelthat happiness if not part of my destiny. 

LADY. But it's all over! My parents are resigned to what we've done. Myhusband understands and has written a kind letter. 

STRANGER. What does that matter? Fate spins the web; once more Ihear the mallet fall and the chairs being pushed back from thetable--judgment has been pronounced. Yet that must have happened beforeI 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 ofthe Fates and draw the threads through your fingers. But go on. The mostbeautiful 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'vefixed your thoughts. The brain must look like that--from within. 

LADY. If only I thought of half the things you imagine. .. . But I thinkof 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! Nowthe clouds have blown away. Now the sky is clear! The wind soft--feelhow it caresses us! This is Life! Yes, now I live. And I feel my spiritgrowing, spreading, becoming tenuous, infinite. I am everywhere, in theocean 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 thewhole universe. I _am_ the universe. And I feel the power of the Creatorwithin me, for I am He! I wish I could grasp the all in my hand andrefashion it into something more perfect, more lasting, more beautiful. I want all creation and created beings to be happy, to be born withoutpain, live without suffering, and die in quiet content. Eve! Die with menow! 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 notsuffered 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 theCreator, 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 meto say 'at home. ' Forgive me. 

STRANGER. You were thinking that Caesar and I resemble one another inour 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 anddiscord 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 pleasantsurprise. But now I won't torment you longer. (He takes out a registeredletter, 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 abouthow much to expect. I'd better look and see. (He opens the letter. )What? Only an account showing I'm owed nothing! There's somethinguncanny 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 himwho so nobly cursed me. .. . (He throws up the letter. ) With a curse of myown. 

LADY. Don't. You frighten me. 

STRANGER. Fear me, so long as you don't despise me! The challengehas been thrown down; now you shall see a conflict between two greatopponents. (He opens his coat and waistcoat and looks threateninglyaloft. ) Strike me with your lightning if you dare! Frighten me with yourthunder if you can!

LADY. Don't speak like that. 

STRANGER. I will. Who dares break in on my dream of love? Who tears thecup from my lips; and the woman from my arms? Those who envy me, bethey gods or devils! Little bourgeois gods who parry sword thrusts withpin-pricks from behind, who won't stand up to their man, but strike athim with unpaid bills. A backstairs way of discrediting a master beforehis 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 togerminate in my mind. First the rhythm; this time like the thunderof hooves and the jingle of spurs and accoutrements. But there's afluttering 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'sno water in the brook, only pebbles. Wait! Now I can hear them, men andwomen, saying a rosary. The angels' greeting. Now I can see--on whatyou're working--a large kitchen, with white-washed walls, it has threesmall latticed windows, with flowers in them. In the left-hand corner ahearth, on the right a table with wooden seats. And above the table, inthe corner, hangs a crucifix, with a lamp burning below. The ceiling'sof 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 thefloor. Now once more I hear the angels' greeting, as if far away. Butthose two in the kitchen are as motionless as figures of wax. A veilshrouds everything. .. . No, that was no poem! (Waking. ) It was somethingelse. 

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 weresaying 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 mymother; 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. Ilong to. 

STRANGER. To the lion's den, the snake pit? One more or less makes nomatter. I'll do it for you, but not like the Prodigal Son. No, you shallsee 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 themountains is too steep for carts to use?

STRANGER. It sounds extraordinary, but I read or dreamed something ofthe kind. 

LADY. You may have. But you'll see nothing that's not natural, thoughperhaps unusual, for men and women are a strange race. Are you ready tofollow me?

STRANGER. I'm ready--for anything!

(The LADY kisses him on the forehead and makes the sign of the crosssimply, 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. Betweenthe trees hills can be seen on which are crucifixes, chapels andmemorials to the victims of accidents. In the foreground a sign postwith the legend, 'Beggars not allowed in this parish. ' The STRANGER andthe 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'vefallen into disfavour. My shoe's split, and I could weep at our havingto go like this, looking like beggars. 

STRANGER (pointing to the signpost). And beggars are not allowed in thisparish. 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 notbeen back since I was a child. And In those days I found the way shortand the hills lower. The trees, too, were smaller, and I think I used tohear birds singing. 

STRANGER. Birds sang all the year for you then! Now they only sing inthe spring--and autumn's not far off. But in those days you used todance along this endless way of Calvaries, plucking flowers at the feetof the crosses. (A horn in the distance. ) What's that?

LADY. My grandfather coming back from shooting. A good old man. Let's goon 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 eighteenbefore I crossed over to this bank, to see what was in the blue of thedistance. .. . Now I've seen. 

STRANGER. You're weeping!

LADY. Poor old man! When I got into the boat, he said: My child, beyondlies 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 uptheir travelling capes and go on. )

SCENE VI

IN A RAVINE

[Entrance to a ravine between steep cliffs covered with pines. In theforeground a wooden shanty, a broom by the door with a ramshorn hangingfrom its handle. Left, a smithy, a red glow showing through its opendoor. Right, a flourmill. In the background the road through the ravinewith mill-stream and footbridge. The rock formations look like giantprofiles. ]

[On the rise of the curtain the SMITH is at the smithy door and theMILLER'S WIFE at the door of the mill. When the LADY enters they signto one another and disappear. The clothing of both the LADY and theSTRANGER 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 arousedisquiet. What's that broom there? And the horn with ointment? Probablybecause 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 theother covered with flour; yet when I saw the blacksmith by the light ofhis 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 savedyou. 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'rehungry and tired, and is silent when we've eaten and rested. It'shorrible to arrive in rags. Our clothes are torn from climbing throughthe brambles. Someone's fighting against me. 

LADY. Why did you challenge him?

STRANGER. Because I want to fight in the open; not battle with unpaidbills and empty purses. Anyhow: here's my last copper. The devil takeit, 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 talkof 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 pastthe 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 areflower pots. The ceiling is beamed and black with soot. In the leftcorner a large range with utensils of copper, iron and tin, and woodenvessels. In the corner, right, a crucifix with a lamp. Beneath it afour-cornered table with benches. Bunches of mistletoe on the walls. A door at the back. The Poorhouse can be seen outside, and through thewindow at the back the church. Near the fire bedding for dogs and atable with food for the poor. ]

[The OLD MAN is sitting at the table beneath the crucifix, with hishands clasped and a game bag before him. He is a strongly-built man ofover eighty with white hair and along beard, dressed as a forester. TheMOTHER 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 andchildren 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. Andwhen it came to paying the ferryman, they'd no money. Now they're dryingtheir 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 mindthat?

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 forseventy 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 juventutemmeam. Yes. I do feel sad. .. . Deus, Deus meus: quare tristis es animamea, et quare conturbas me. 

MOTHER. Spera in Deo. .. . 

(The Maid comes in, and signs to the MOTHER, who goes over to her. Theywhisper 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: asvagabonds?

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 isfitting, if not right. Have you ever seen her ashamed, or suffer from arebuff? I never have. Yet she's not without shame; on the contrary. Andeverything she does, however questionable, seems natural when she doesit. 

OLD MAN. I've always wondered why one could never be angry with her. Shedoesn't feel herself responsible, or think an insult's directed at her. She seems impersonal; or rather two persons, one who does nothing butill whilst the other gives absolution. .. . But this man! There's no oneI've hated from afar so much as he. He sees evil everywhere; and of noone have I heard so much ill. 

MOTHER. That's true. But it may be Ingeborg's found some mission in thisman's life; and he in hers. Perhaps they're meant to torture each otherinto atonement. 

OLD MAN. Perhaps. But I'll have nothing to do with at seems to meshameful. This man, under my roof! Yet I must accept it, like everythingelse. For I've deserved no less. 

MOTHER. Very well then. (The LADY and the STRANGER come in. ) You'rewelcome. 

LADY. Thank you, Mother. (She looks over to the OLD MAN, who rises andlooks at the STRANGER. ) Peace, Grandfather. This is my husband. Give himyour hand. 

OLD MAN. First let me look at him. (He goes to the STRANGER, puts hishands on his shoulders and looks him in the eyes. ) What motives broughtyou here?

STRANGER (simply). None, but to keep my wife company, at her earnestdesire. 

OLD MAN. If that's true, you're welcome! I've a long and stormy lifebehind me, and at last I've found a certain peace in solitude. I beg younot to trouble it. 

STRANGER. I haven't come here to ask favours. I'll take nothing with mewhen I go. 

OLD MAN. That's not the answer I wanted; for we all need one another. Iperhaps 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 suchthing; but I wish you strength to bear your destiny. Now I'll leave youfor 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 ifgrandfather 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 gosomewhere, and cannot change my fate, I've lost my scruples. 

MOTHER. Then you're like my daughter--she, too, has no scruples and noconscience. 

STRANGER. What?

MOTHER. You think I'm speaking ill of her? I couldn't do that of my ownchild. 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 tochange her. .. . 

MOTHER. And remake her in your image? (Laughing. ) I've been told thatcountry wizards carve images of their victims, and give them the namesof those they'd bewitch. That was your plan: by means of this Eve, thatyou 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 suchthings?

MOTHER. The thoughts were yours. 

STRANGER. This begins to be interesting. I imagined an idyll in theforest, but this is a witches' cauldron. 

MOTHER. Not quite. You've forgotten, or never knew, that a man desertedme shamefully, and that you're a man who also shamefully deserted awoman. 

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 deceiveme; it won't go well with you. (Pause. ) A trifle, but one that does usno good here: why didn't you pay the ferryman?

STRANGER. My heel of Achilles! I threw my last coin away. Can't we speakof something else than money in this house?

MOTHER. Oh yes. But in this house we do our duty before we amuseourselves. 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 thefigure you cut, if I didn't know it would make you weep, and others withyou. (Pause. ) But now you've had your will, hold fast to the woman wholoves you; for if you leave her, you'll never smile again, and soonforget 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'veknown. 

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. AsI 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. Theferryman 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 wasclosed. An illusion, perhaps. 

MOTHER. Perhaps. But why does one often see such things at the righttime?

OLD MAN. This man's presence is intolerable. When he looks at me I can'tbreathe. 

MOTHER. We must try to get rid of him. I'm certain he won't care to stayfor long. 

OLD MAN. No. He won't grow old here. (Pause. ) Listen, I got a letterto-night warning me about him. Among other things he's wanted by thecourts. 

MOTHER. The courts?

OLD MAN. Yes. Money matters. But, remember, the laws of hospitalityprotect beggars and enemies. Let him stay a few days, till he's got overthis 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 whoheld 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 wallsare colour-washed in red; the curtains are of thin rose-colouredmuslin. In the small latticed windows there are flowers. On right, awriting-table and bookshelf. Left, a sofa with rose-coloured curtainsabove in the form of a baldachino. Tables and chairs in Old Germanstyle. At the back, a door. Outside the country can be seen and thepoorhouse, 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 yourfate?

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, orfoolishness. 

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 beingpressed 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 tellhim nothing he doesn't know already. That's why we don't speak much; buthe'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 themill-race! But don't you think you'd have more to talk of, if you readwhat 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 quotesomething from his masterpiece. 

LADY (hiding the book in her bag). He's coming. If he's spoken of heseems 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 takenaback. She hides it in her bag. )

STRANGER (entering). Your mother was here? You were speaking of me, ofcourse. I can almost hear her ill-natured words. They cut the air anddarken the sunshine. I can almost divine the impression of her body inthe atmosphere of the room, and she leaves an odour like that of a deadsnake. 

LADY. You're irritable to-day. 

STRANGER. Fearfully. Some fool has restrung my nerves out of tune, andplays 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 thanI! Someone with a searchlight who shines it at me, wherever I may be. Dothey 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 theresolely 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 befattened for the butcher. But I can't eat because they grudge it me, andI feel the cold rays of their hate. To me it seems there's an icy windeverywhere, although it's still and hot. And I can hear that accursčdmill. .. . 

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 hadan unwelcome letter this morning?

STRANGER. Yes. The kind that makes your hair rise from the scalp, sothat 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 mychildren, because I've not paid alimony. No one has ever been in sucha 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. Thedevil's got a hand in it. 

LADY. Why?

STRANGER. Why? Why is one born into this world an ignoramus, knowingnothing of the laws, customs and usage one inadvertently breaks? Andfor which one's punished. Why does one grow into a youth full of highambition only to be driven into vile actions one abhors? Why, why?

LADY (who has secretly been looking at the book: absent-mindedly). Theremust 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 memore 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 ownhand. I am Caesar, the school-boy, for whose escapade your husband, thewerewolf, was punished. Fate delights in making links for eternity. A noble sport! (The LADY, uncertain what to do, does not reply. ) Saysomething!

LADY. I can't. 

STRANGER. Say that he became a werewolf because, as a child, he losthis belief in the justice of heaven, owing to the fact that, thoughinnocent, he was punished for the misdeeds of another. But if you sayso, I shall reply that I suffered ten times as much from my conscience, and that the spiritual crisis that followed left me so strengthened thatI'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 bethe 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'veblown me into the air with my own petard. Why must all our misdeeds comehome to roost--both boyish escapades and really evil action? It's fairenough to reap evil where one has sown it. But I've never seen a goodaction get its reward. Never! It's a disgrace to Him who records allsins, 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. .. Foryou'd ruined his life. 

STRANGER. What curse is that?

LADY. From the fifth book of Moses. The priests chant it in chorus whenthe fasts begin. 

STRANGER. I don't remember it. What does it matter--a curse more orless?

LADY. In my family those whom we curse, are struck. 

STRANGER. I don't believe it. But I do believe that evil emanates fromthis house. May it recoil upon it! That is my prayer! Now, according tocustom, it would be my duty to shoot myself; but I can't, so long as Ihave other duties. You see, I can't even die, and so I've lost my lasttreasure--what, with reason, I call my religion. I've heard that man canwrestle with God, and with success; but not even job could fight againstSatan. (Pause. ) Let's speak of you. .. . 

LADY. Not now. Later perhaps. Since I've got to know your terriblebook--I've only glanced at it, only read a few lines here and there--Ifeel as if I'd eaten of the tree of knowledge. My eyes are opened and Iknow what's good and what's evil, as I've never known before. And nowI see how evil you are, and why I am to be called Eve. She was a motherand brought sin into the world: it was another mother who broughtexpiation. 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 oldpeople now. Then I'll come back. I shan't be long. (Exit. )

LADY (remains motionless, then goes to the door and looks out. She sinksto her knees). No! He won't come back!

Curtain. 

SCENE IX

CONVENT

[The refectory of an ancient convent, resembling a simple whitewashedRomanesque church. There are damp patches on the walls, looking likestrange figures. A long table with bowls; at the end a desk for theLector. At the back a door leading to the chapel. There are lightedcandles on the tables. On the wall, left, a painting representing theArchangel Michael killing the Fiend. ]

[The STRANGER is sitting left, at a refectory table, dressed in thewhite clothing of a patient, with a bowl before him. At the table, right, are sitting: the brown-clad mourners of Scene I. The BEGGAR. Awoman in mourning with two children. A woman who resembles the Lady, butwho is not her and who is crocheting instead of eating. A Man very likethe 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 crępe. Their faces arewaxen and corpse-like, their whole appearance queer, their gesturesstrange. 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 servingtable). Mother. May I speak to you?

ABBESS (in a black-and-white Augustinian habit). Yes, my son. (They comeforward. )

STRANGER. First, where am I?

ABBESS. In a convent called 'St. Saviour. ' You were found on the hillsabove the ravine, with a cross you'd broken from a calvary and withwhich you were threatening someone in the clouds. Indeed, you thoughtyou could see him. You were feverish and had lost your foothold. Youwere picked up, unhurt, beneath a cliff, but in delirium. You werebrought 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 withall kinds of things, and thought you could see your victims, as youcalled them. 

STRANGER. And then?

ABBESS. Your thoughts often turned to money matters. You wanted to payfor yourself in the hospital. I tried to calm you by telling you nopayment 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 naturecan accept and be thankful. 

STRANGER. I want no charity. 

ABBESS. Hm!

STRANGER. Tell me, why will none of those people sit at the same tablewith 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 theylook strange to you, because you're still feverish. Or there may beanother reason. 

STRANGER. I seem to know them, all of them! I see them as if in amirror: they only make as if they were eating. .. . Is this some dramathey're performing? Those look like my parents, rather like. .. (Pause. )Hitherto I've feared nothing, because life was useless to me. .. . Now Ibegin to be afraid. 

ABBESS. If you don't believe them real, I'll ask the Confessor tointroduce 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 yourdesire, I heard your confession. 

STRANGER. What? My confession?

CONFESSOR. Yes. But I couldn't give you absolution; because it seemedthat what you said was spoken in fever. 

STRANGER. Why?

CONFESSOR. There was hardly a sin or vice you didn't take uponyourself--things so hateful you'd have had to undergo strict penitencebefore demanding absolution. Now you're yourself again I can ask whetherthere 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 inwhose company you are! The very best. There, for instance, is a madman, Caesar, who lost his wits through reading the works of a certain writerwhose notoriety is greater than his fame. There's a beggar, who won'tadmit he's a beggar, because he's learnt Latin and is free. There, adoctor, called the werewolf, whose history's well known. There, twoparents, who grieved themselves to death over a son who raised hishand against theirs. He must be responsible for refusing to follow hisfather's bier and desecrating his mother's grave. There's his unhappysister, whom he drove out into the snow, as he himself recounts, withthe best intentions. Over there's a woman who's been abandoned with hertwo children, and there's another doing crochet work. .. . All are oldacquaintances. Go and greet them!

(The STRANGER has turned his back on the company: he now goes to thetable, left, and sits down with his back to them. He raises his head, sees the picture of the Archangel Michael and lowers his eyes. TheCONFESSOR stands behind the STRANGER. A Catholic Requiem can be heardfrom the chapel. The CONFESSOR speaks to the STRANGER in a low voicewhile 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. Themusic ceases. )

We will continue the reading. .. . 'But if thou wilt not hearken unto thevoice of the Lord thy God all these curses shall overtake thee. Cursčdshalt thou be in the city, and cursčd shalt thou be in the field; cursčdshalt thou be when thou comest in, and cursčd when thou goest out. '

OMNES (in a low voice). Cursčd!

CONFESSOR. 'The Lord shall send upon thee vexation and rebuke in allthat thou settest thy hand for to do, until thou be destroyed, and untilthou perish quickly, because of the wickedness of thy doings, wherebythou hast forsaken me. '

OMNES (loudly). Cursčd!

CONFESSOR. 'The Lord shall cause thee to be smitten before thineenemies: thou shalt go out one way against them, and flee seven waysbefore them, and shalt be moved into all the kingdoms of the earth. Andthy carcase shall be meat unto all fowls of the air, and unto the beastsof the earth, and no man shall fray them away. The Lord will smitethee with the botch of Egypt, the scab and the itch, with madness andblindness, that thou shalt grope at noonday, as the blind gropeth indarkness. Thou shalt not prosper in thy ways, and thou shalt be onlyoppressed and spoiled evermore, and no man shall save thee. Thou shaltbetroth a wife, and another man shall lie with her: thou shalt build anhouse, and thou shalt not dwell therein: thou shalt plant a vineyard, and shalt not gather the grapes thereof. Thy sons and thy daughtersshall be given unto another people, and thine eyes fail with longing forthem; and there shall be no might in thy hand. And thou shalt find noease on earth, neither shall the sole of thy foot have rest: the Lordshall give thee a trembling heart, and failing of eyes and sorrow ofmind. And thy life shall hang in doubt before thee; and thou shalt fearday 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 thouservedst not the Lord thy God when thou livedst in security, thou shaltserve him in hunger, in thirst, in nakedness and in want; and He shallput 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 tothe STRANGER. All those present, except the LADY, who is working, havebeen listening and have joined in the curse, though they have feignednot 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 goestowards 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. Arethey 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 acertain running stream. 

STRANGER. That's the truth! In a 'rose' room. Wait; how long have I beenhere?

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 cloudslook cold. Now it's coming back to me! Can you hear a mill grinding? Thesound of a horn? The rushing of a river? A wood whispering--and awoman 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 darknessoutside. The furniture has been covered in brown loose-covers and pulledforward. The flowers have been taken away, and the large black stovelit. The MOTHER is standing ironing white curtains by the light of asingle 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 youbeen?

STRANGER. Whether in a poorhouse, a madhouse or a hospital, I don'tknow. I should like to think it all a feverish dream. I've been ill: Ilost my memory and can't believe three months have passed. But where'smy wife?

MOTHER. I ought to ask you that. When you deserted her, she wentaway--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 werepulling a cord that ran through two blocks. Every time they pulled Ifelt 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 lifeunroll before me like a panorama, through childhood, youth. .. . Andwhen the roll was finished it began again. All the time I heard a millgrinding. .. . 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 athoroughgoing scamp. 

MOTHER. Why call yourself that?

STRANGER. I know you'd like to hear me say I was a scoundrel. But thatwould seem to me like boasting. It would imply a certainty about myselfto 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, directsyour 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 allaptitude for writing. And I can't sleep at night. 

MOTHER. Indeed!

STRANGER. What are called nightmares stop me. Last and worst: I daren'tdie; 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 escapefrom myself, if I knew how. If I were a Christian, I couldn't obey thefirst commandment, to love my neighbour as myself, for I should haveto hate him as I hate myself. It's true that I'm a scamp. I've alwayssuspected 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 resentedtheir 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'tbow your neck like the rest, you must be broken like a reed. 

STRANGER. I don't know where this fearful stubbornness comes from. It'strue an unpaid bill can make me tremble; but if I were to climb MountSinai and face the Eternal One, I should not cover my face. 

MOTHER. Jesus and Mary! Don't say such things. You'll make me thinkyou're a child of the Devil. 

STRANGER. Here that seems the general opinion. But I've heard that thosewho serve the Evil One get honours, goods and gold as their reward. Goldespecially. 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 inthe 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 fearghosts, but rats aren't pleasant. 

MOTHER. I'm glad you don't fear ghosts, for no one's slept a whole nightthere. .. Whatever the cause may be. 

STRANGER (after a moment's hesitation). Never have I met a more wickedwoman 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 windowlattices 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 huntinghorn, a gun and a game bag hang on the wall. On the table a stuffed birdof 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 thehearth, move in the wind, whose sighing can be heard. In the distancethe noise of a waterfall. There is an occasional tapping on the woodenfloor. ]

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 lessmarked. ) What's moving on the floor? Is anyone here? (He goes to thetable, 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 likesnakes?

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 knockingduring 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 lastnight; you must forgive me. It's because of that I need religion; justas I need the penitential garment and the stone floor. To spare you, I'll tell you what nightmares are to me. My bad conscience! WhetherI punish myself or another punishes me, I don't know. I don't permitmyself 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 someonewere there. Then I went to bed. But someone started pacing up and downabove me with a heavy tread. Do you believe in ghosts?

MOTHER. My religion won't allow me to. But I believe our sense of rightand wrong will find a way to punish us. 

STRANGER. Soon I felt cold air on my breast--it reached my heart andforced me to get up. 

MOTHER. And then?

STRANGER. To stand and watch the whole panorama of my life unroll beforeme. 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 noone gave me the right. Accursčd be He who forced me! (Putting his handto 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 beforeHim 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 stayat 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 tosay. First, your wife. 

STRANGER. Where is she?

MOTHER. You must find her. On your way don't forget to call on him younamed the werewolf. 

STRANGER. Never!

MOTHER. You'd have said that, as you came here. As you know, I expectedyour 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. Goand search for her. If you find her, well and good. If not, perhaps thattoo has been ordained. (Pause. ) Dawn's now at hand. Morning has come andthe 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 morningstar--how far from heaven have you fallen!

STRANGER (after a pause). Have you noticed that, before the sun rises, afeeling of awe takes hold of mankind? Are we children of darkness, thatwe 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 havelost their leaves. Work is going on at the smithy and the mill. TheSMITH stands, left, in the doorway; the MILLER'S wife, right. TheLADY dressed in a jacket with a hat of patent leather; but she is inmourning. The STRANGER is in Bavarian alpine kit: short jacket ofrough material, knickers, heavy boots and alpenstock, green hat withheath-cock feather. Over this he wears a brown cloak with a cape andhood. ]

LADY (entering tired and dispirited). Did a man pass here in a longcloak, with a green hat? (The SMITH and the MILLER'S WIFE shake theirheads. ) Can I lodge here for the night? (The SMITH and the MILLER'S WIFEagain shake their heads: to the SMITH. ) May I stand in the doorway fora moment and warm myself? (The SMITH pushes her away. ) God reward youaccording 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 mesome bread? I'll pay for it. (The MILLER'S WIFE refuses the money. ) Nocharity!

ECHO (imitating his voice from afar). Charity. 

(The SMITH and the MILLER'S WIFE laugh so loudly and so long that, atlength, ECHO replies. )

STRANGER. Good! An eye for an eye--a tooth for a tooth. It helps tolighten my conscience! (He enters the ravine. )

SCENE XIII

ON THE ROAD

[The same landscape as before; but autumn. The BEGGAR is sitting outsidea chapel with a lime twig and a bird cage, in which is a starling. TheSTRANGER enters wearing the same clothes as in the preceding scene. ]

STRANGER. Beggar! Have you seen a lady in a coat and skirt pass thisway?

BEGGAR. I've seen five hundred. But, seriously, I must ask you not tocall 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 butpure. .. 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. Doyou think I'm always so merry? Only when I meet you: you're so damnablyfunny!

STRANGER. How can you laugh, with a wrecked life behind you?

BEGGAR. Now he's getting personal! (Pause. ) If you can't laugh atadversity, not even that of others, you're begging of life itself. Listen! If you follow this wheel track you'll come, at last, to theocean, 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 manyaccidents, religious themes, disagreeable memories that hinder thoughtas it flies to the 'rose' room. Only follow the track! If it'smuddy here and there, spread your wings and flutter. And talking offluttering: 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'tknow what to do with them. So he sent tidings east and west of thegreat Nothing he'd helped to fashion from the empty universe. I wouldn'tassert you were the man, unless I believed it so firmly I could take myoath on it. Once I asked you whether you knew who I was, and you saidit didn't interest you. In return I offered you my friendship, but yourefused it rudely. However, I'm not sensitive or resentful, so I'll giveyou 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 butevil. 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, turnsmy 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 thefuneral march is heard again. The LADY enters. )

LADY. Have you seen a man pass this way in a long cloak, with a greenhat?

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 walkunsteadily. I mustn't be malicious. Look here in the mud. 

LADY. Where?

BEGGAR (pointing). There! At that rut. In it you can see the impressionof a boot, firmly planted. .. . 

LADY (looking at the impression). It's he! His heavy tread. .. . Can Icatch 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 thedistance three bare masts of a wrecked ship, that look like three whitecrosses. The table and seat are still under the tree, but the chairshave been removed. There is snow on the ground. From time to time abell-buoy can be heard. The STRANGER comes in from the left, stops amoment and looks out to sea, then goes out, right, behind the cottage. The LADY enters, left, and appears to be following the STRANGER'Sfootsteps on the snow; she exits in front of the cottage, right. TheSTRANGER 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 wanderover stones and thistles. And when our hands and feet are bruised, wefeel we must rub salt in the wounds of the. .. Other one. And then themill 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 weshould 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 breakyour 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 allthe sin and sorrow, all the filth and shame of the whole world. Thereare moments when I believe we are condemned to sin and do bad actionsas a punishment! (Pause. ) Not long ago I lay sick of a fever, and amidstall that happened to me, I dreamed that I saw a crucifix without theCrucified. And when I asked the Dominican--for there was a Dominicanamong many others--what it could mean, he said: 'You will not allow Himto suffer for you. Suffer then yourself!' That's why mankind have grownso conscious of their own sufferings. 

LADY. And why consciences grow so heavy, if there's no one to help tobear 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 strangebeggar--perhaps you remember him: he was thought to be like me. Andhe begged me, as an experiment, to believe his good intentions. I didbelieve--as an experiment--and. .. . 

LADY. Well?

STRANGER. It went well with me. And since then I feel I've strength togo on my way. .. . 

LADY. Let's go together!

STRANGER (turning to the sea). Yes. It's growing dark and the clouds aregathering. 

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 longfor it, in order to suffer. 

LADY. And are you suffering?

STRANGER. Yes. I can no longer listen to singing, or look at anythingbeautiful. During the day I hear the mill and see that great panoramanow 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 Imust 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 tomy 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 mychildren. (Getting up. ) I put my hands to his throat. .. . I can't goon. .. . But I shall never rest till I know the truth. And to know it, Imust 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. Imust 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 mustrisk it. I want to risk everything--life, freedom, welfare. I need anemotional shock, strong enough to bring myself into the light of day. Idemand this torture, that my punishment may be in just proportion to mysin, so that I shall not be forced to drag myself along under the burdenof 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 youwill 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 withit, 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 beentaken 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 ofchallenge. Still, let him come in. 

SISTER. Are you serious?

DOCTOR. Perfectly. But, if you care to talk to him a little, in thatstraightforward 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 forbidsyou to say. 

DOCTOR. Enough of my kindness! Make haste, or I'll get impatient. Shutthe doors. (His SISTER goes out. ) What are you doing at that dustbin, Caesar? (CAESAR comes in. ) Listen, Caesar, if your enemy were to comeand 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 ashame. 

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 cutoff 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 mannerbetrays 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 mustbegin 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 adoctor?

STRANGER. I've been lying ill in an. .. Institution. I was feverish. I'vea strange malady. 

DOCTOR. What was so strange about it?

STRANGER. May I ask this? Can one go about as usual; and yet bedelirious?

DOCTOR. If you're mad; not otherwise. (The STRANGER lets up, but thensits 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 tothe road. (To the STRANGER. ) Won't you sit down? I have to keep thedoors 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 myopinion must be a matter of indifference to you. (Pause. ) But if it'syour 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 weddinghere!

STRANGER. I dreamed it!

DOCTOR. It may ease your mind to know that I've consoled myself, as it'scalled. You may be pleased, it would be natural. .. But I see, on thecontrary, it makes you suffer more. There must be a reason. Why, shouldyou be upset at my marrying a widow?

STRANGER. With two children?

DOCTOR. Two children! Now we have it! A damnable supposition worthy ofyou. If there were a hell, you should be hell's overseer, for your skillin finding means of punishment exceeds my wildest inventions. Yet I'mcalled a werewolf!

STRANGER. It might happen that. .. 

DOCTOR (cutting him short). For a long time, I hated you, because byan unforgiveable action you cheated me of my good name. But when I grewolder and wiser I saw that, although the punishment wasn't earned, Ideserved it for other things that had never been discovered. Besides, you were a boy with enough conscience to be able to punish yourself. Soyou need worry no more about the whole thing. Is that what you wanted tospeak of?

STRANGER. Yes. 

DOCTOR. Then you'll be content, if I let you go? (The STRANGER is aboutto ask a question. ) Did you think I'd shut you up? Or cut you in pieceswith those instruments? Kill you? 'Perhaps such poor devils ought tobe put out of their misery!' (The STRANGER looks at his watch. ) You canstill catch the boat. 

STRANGER. Will you give me your hand?

DOCTOR. Impossible. And what is the use of my forgiving you, if you lackthe strength to forgive yourself? (Pause. ) Some things can only be curedby making them undone. So this never can be. 

STRANGER. St. Saviour. .. 

DOCTOR. Helped you. You challenged destiny and were broken. There's noshame in losing such a fight. I did the same; but, as you see, I've gotrid of my woodpile. I want no thunder in my home. And I shall play nomore 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 thetree, 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 unjustto 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 registeredletter 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 theexplanation. 

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'snot 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 bemade 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 andlight a candle to my good Saint Elizabeth. Come. (The STRANGER shakeshis 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 runstowards the back, where there is a thick pine wood with heights beyond, whose outlines intersect. On the left there is a suggestion of a riverbank, but the river itself cannot be seen. The house is white and hassmall, mullioned windows with iron bars. On the wall vines and climbingroses. In front of the house, on the terrace, a well; at the end of theterrace pumpkin plants, whose large yellow flowers hang dozen over theedge. Fruit trees are planted along the road, and a memorial cross canbe seen erected at a spot where an accident occurred. Steps leaddown from the terrace to the road, and there are flower-pots on thebalustrade. In front of the steps there is a seat. The road reaches theforeground from the right, curving past the terrace, which projects likea promontory, and then loses itself in the background. Strong sunlightfrom the left. The MOTHER is sitting on the seat below the steps. TheDOMINICAN is standing in front of her. ]

DOMINICAN [Note: The same character as the CONFESSOR and BEGGAR. ]. Youcalled me to discuss a family matter of importance to you. Tell me whatit is. 

MOTHER. Father, life has treated me hardly. I don't know what I've doneto be so frowned upon by Providence. 

DOMINICAN. It's a mark of favour to be tried by the Eternal One, andtriumph awaits the steadfast. 

MOTHER. That's what I've often said to myself; but there are limits tothe 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 bareknees!

MOTHER. And as you know, Father, my only daughter was married toa doctor. But she left him and came home with a stranger, whom shepresented to me as her new husband. 

DOMINICAN. That's not easy to understand. Divorce isn't recognised byour religion. 

MOTHER. No. But they'd crossed the frontier, to a land where there areother 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 itnever 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 tofill my cup of sorrow. He's been divorced and his wife and children livein wretched circumstances. 

DOMINICAN. A difficult case. But we'll find a way to put it right. Whatdoes 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'snot known a happy hour. Fate, as he calls it, seized him with an ironhand and drove him here in the shape of a ragged beggar. Ill-fortunestruck him blow after blow, so that I pitied him at the very moment hefled from here. Then he wandered in the woods and, later, lay out in thefields where he fell, till he was found by merciful folk and taken to aconvent. There he lay ill for three months, without our knowing where hewas. 

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 scarcelya sin of which he didn't confess his guilt. But when he came to himselfagain, he said he remembered nothing. So to prove him in heart and reinsI 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, thecurse 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 Paulrelates, '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 areinscrutable. Was he heavily struck by the curse?

MOTHER. Yes. That night he slept here, and was torn from his sleep by anunexplained 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 Jobsays, 'When I say, my bed shall comfort me, then Thou scarest mewith dreams and terrifiest me with visions; so that my soul choosethstrangling, and death rather than life. ' That's as it should be. Did itopen his eyes?

MOTHER. Yes. But only so that his sight was blinded. For his sufferingsgrew so great that he could no longer find a natural explanation forthem, and as no doctor could cure him, he began to see that he wasfighting higher conscious powers. 

DOMINICAN. Powers that meant him ill, and were therefore themselvesevil. That's the usual course of things. And then?

MOTHER. He came upon books that taught him that such evil powers couldbe fought. 

DOMINICAN. Oh! So he looked for what's hidden, and should remain so! Didhe 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 trulyaccepted the love of truth, God will trouble him with great delusion, sothat he'll believe what is false. 

MOTHER. The fault's his own. But he's changed my daughter: in other daysshe 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 anotherlike devils. 

DOMINICAN. That's the way they must go. Plague one another till theycome 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 ifthey were, for a child's on the way. 

DOMINICAN. Let the child come. Children bring gifts that are refreshingto tired souls. 

MOTHER. I hope it may be so. But it looks as if this one will be anapple of discord. They're already quarrelling over its name; they'requarrelling over its baptism; and the mother's already jealous of herhusband's children by his first wife. He can't promise to love thischild as much as the others, and the mother absolutely insists that heshall! 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 itis mysterious. (The STRANGER appears on the terrace. He is in huntingcostume 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. Hehasn't seen me yet, but he feels I'm here. (He makes the sign of thecross in the air. ) Look how troubled he grows. .. . Now he stiffens likean icicle. See! In a moment he'll cry out. 

STRANGER (who has suddenly stopped, grown rigid, and clutched hisheart). 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; butfall like a felled tree. (The STRANGER crumples up and falls to theground. ) Now I shall go. It would be too much for him if he were to seeme, But I'll come back soon. You'll see, he's in good hands! Farewelland 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. Sitdown 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 lifeglide past as the river does below. Here, on the road, I've watched thechildren of men go by, playing, haggling, begging, cursing and dancing. I love this seat and I love the river below, though it does much damageevery year and washes away the property we inherited. Last spring itcarried our whole hay crop off, so that we had to sell our beasts. Theproperty's lost half its value in the last few years, and when the lakein the mountains has reached its new level and the swamp's been drainedinto the river, the water will rise till it washes the house away. We'vebeen at law about it for ten years, and we've lost every appeal; so weshall 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 ofProvidence. 

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 anencyclopaedia that the Eumenides are not evilly disposed. 

STRANGER. That's true; but it's a lie they're friendly. I only know onefriendly fury. My own!

MOTHER. Can you call Ingeborg a fury?

STRANGER. Yes. She is one; and as a fury, she's remarkable. Her talentfor making me suffer excels my most infernal inventions; and if I escapefrom 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 youwished, 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 goestowards the back. )

MOTHER. So you can still joke about it? Wait! (The MOTHER is left alonefor a moment, until the STRANGER has disappeared. The LADY then entersfrom the right. She is wearing a summer frock, and is carrying a postbag 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 lifeto. 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 andrun the danger of being broken to pieces. 

MOTHER. How learnčd 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 makingelectrical experiments and claims he'll be able to harness thelightning, so that it'll give him light, warmth and power. Well, lethim do as he likes! From a letter that came to-day I see he's evencorresponding 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'tmatter 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 gonewrong; he's grown melancholic, abandoned his practice and is trampingthe roads. 

MOTHER. Oh! He was always my son-in-law. He had a kind heart under hisrough manner. 

LADY. Yes. I only called him a werewolf in his rôle as my husbandand master. As long as I knew he was at peace, and on the way tofind consolation, Ě was content. But now he'll torment me like a badconscience. 

MOTHER. Have you a conscience?

LADY. I never used to have one. But my eyes have been opened since Iread my husband's works, and I know the difference between good andevil. 

MOTHER. But he forbade you to read them, and never foresaw you wouldn'tobey 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 goingto 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 wouldmarry 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 thatan educated man of the world at the end of the nineteenth century neverlets 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 nomisfortune. 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 yousay? Answer, or I'll be unhappy! I love this boy already, but I feel I'dhate 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'dhave got over the worst. But now I see it was only a foretaste of whatwas to come. 

LADY. I'm ready for anything; and I don't think this knot can ever beundone. It must be cut!

MOTHER. But you're only making more difficulties for yourself bysuppressing 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'sstarted to waken thoughts in me. (She puts the letters into thepost-bag. ) Here he is. 'Sh!

MOTHER. One thing more. Why do you let him wear that suit of your firsthusband's?

LADY. I like torturing and humiliating him. I've persuaded him it fitshim and belonged to my father. Now, when I see him in the werewolf'sthings, 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 rôle, if I have one in this man's life!

MOTHER. I sometimes wish the river would rise and carry us all awaywhilst we're asleep at night. If it were to flow here for a thousandyears perhaps it would wash out the sin on which this house is built. 

LADY. Then it's true that my grandfather, the notary, illegally seizedproperty not his own? It's said this place was built with the heritageof widows and orphans, the funds of ruined men, the property of deadones and the bribes of litigants. 

MOTHER. Don't speak of it any more. The tears of those still living haverun together and formed a lake. And it's that lake, people say, that'sbeing 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 onearth?

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 inheritother 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 meuneasy. 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 amCain, you see, and am under the ban of mysterious powers, who permit nomortals to interfere with their work of vengeance. You see this markon my brow? (He removes his hat. ) It means: Revenge is mine, saith theLord. 

LADY. Does your hat press. .. . 

STRANGER. No. It chafes me. And so does the coat. If it weren't that Iwanted to please you, I'd have thrown them all into the river. WhenI walk here in the neighbourhood, do you know that people call methe doctor? They must take me for your husband, the werewolf. And I'munlucky. If I ask who planted some tree: they say, the doctor. If I askto whom the green fish basket belongs: they say, the doctor. And if itisn't his then it belongs to the doctor's wife. That is, to you! Thisconfusion between him and me makes my visit unbearable. I'd like to goaway. .. . 

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 otherone's' not said already. 

LADY. Your first wife's 'the other one. ' How tactful to remind me ofher. 

STRANGER. Everything that lives and moves, everything that's dead andcold, reminds me of what's gone. .. . 

LADY. Until the being comes, who can wipe out the darkness of the pastand 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 torun off to the lawyers and divorce me; because I wouldn't take you to aquack 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? Hasthe post come?

LADY. You're still more cunning than I am. But the pupil will outstripthe 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 finedistinctions 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. Andif 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 theinnocent 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, andborn 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 thatof a mother speaking to her child. 

LADY. When you say 'mother' I feel I can only believe good of you; buta moment after I say to myself: it's only one more of your ways ofdeceiving me. 

STRANGER. What ill have I ever really done you? (The LADY is uncertainwhat 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'tdeceive 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 arebare. 

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 husbandused 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 iswithout a collar; he has a laurel crown on his head and his feet arebare. His general appearance is bizarre. )

CAESAR. Why don't you greet me? You ought to say: Ave, Caesar! For nowI'm the master. The werewolf, you must know, has gone out of his mindsince the Great Man went off with his wife, whom he himself snatchedfrom 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. Hewon't use daggers or poison. He only has to show himself, for all livingthings to fly from him; for trees to drop their leaves, and the verydust of the highway to run before him in a whirlwind like the pillar ofcloud before the Children of Israel. .. . 

STRANGER. Listen. .. . 

CAESAR. Quiet, whilst I'm speaking. .. . Sometimes he believes himself tobe a werewolf, and says he'd like to eat a little child that's not yetborn, and that's really his according to the right of priority. .. . (Hegoes 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 itback. You said it wasn't fair for invisible ones to creep in by nightand strike in the darkness, they should come by day when the sun'sshining. 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'sstruck! Let's sit down on the seat--the bench for the accused. For moreare coming. 

LADY. I'd rather we went. 

STRANGER. No, I want to see how much I can bear. You see, at everystroke of the lash I feel as if a debit entry had been erased from myledger. 

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 thatmeans a great deal. You go! I'll take the duty on myself of confrontinghim alone. 

(The LADY goes up the steps, but does not reach the toy before theDOCTOR 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 ahunting coat, which are exactly similar to the clothes of the STRANGER. He behaves as though he doesn't notice the STRANGER'S presence, and sitsdown 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 fromhis brow. The STRANGER grows impatient. ) What do you want?

DOCTOR. Only to see this house again, where my happiness once dwelt andmy roses blossomed. .. . 

STRANGER. An intelligent man of the world would have chosen a time whenthe present inhabitants of the house were away for a short while; evenon his own account, so as not to make himself ridiculous. 

DOCTOR. Ridiculous? I'd like to know which of us two's the moreridiculous?

STRANGER. For the moment, I suppose I am. 

DOCTOR. Yes. But I don't think you know the whole extent of yourwretchedness. 

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! Doyou know the reason? It's this: you're wearing the things I forgot tofetch when the catastrophe took place. No intelligent man of the worldat the end of the nineteenth century would ever put himself into such aposition. 

STRANGER (throwing down his hat and coat). Curse the woman!

DOCTOR. You needn't complain. Cast-off male attire has always been fatalever since the celebrated shirt of Nessus. Go in now and change. I'llsit out here and watch, and listen, how you settle the matter alone withthat accursčd woman. Don't forget your stick! (The LADY, who is hurryingtowards the house, trips in front of the steps. The STRANGER stays wherehe 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, ourclothes, the bed-clothes not forgotten, and now our child! I'm withinyour doors, I sit at your table, I lie in your bed; I exist in yourblood; in your lungs, in your brain; I am everywhere and yet you can'tget hold of me. When the pendulum strikes the hour of midnight, I'llblow 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 thatyou'll see visions you can't distinguish from reality. I shall lie likea stone in your path, so that you stumble; I shall be the thorn thatpricks your hand when you go to pluck the rose. My soul shall spinitself about you like a spider's web; and I shall guide you like an oxby means of the woman you stole from me. Your child shall be mine andI 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, belovčd house, farewell; farewell, 'rose' room--where no happiness shall dwell that Icould envy. (He goes out. The STRANGER has been sitting on the seat allthis time, without being able to answer, and has been listening as if hewere the accused. )

Curtain. 

ACT II

SCENE I

LABORATORY

[A Garden Pavilion in rococo style with high windows. In the middle ofthe room there is a large writing desk on which are various pieces ofchemical and physical apparatus. Two copper wires are suspended from theceiling to an electroscope that is standing on the middle of the tableand which is provided with a number of bells, intended to record thetension of atmospheric electricity. ]

[On the table to the left a large old-fashioned frictional electricgenerating machine, with glass plates, brass conductors, and Leydenbattery. The stands are lacquered red and white. On the right a largeold-fashioned open fireplace with tripods, crucibles, pincers, bellows, etc. ]

[In the background a door with a view of the country beyond; it is darkand cloudy weather, but the red rays of the sun occasionally shineinto the room. A brown cloak with a cape and hood is hanging up by thefireplace; nearby a travelling bag and an alpenstock. The STRANGER andthe 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 toyou. 

MOTHER. Well, tell me!

STRANGER. She wants a divorce, because I've refused to turn this manout, 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 thatshe's been stealing my letters?

MOTHER. I know nothing of that. 

STRANGER. I'm not asking you whether you know of it, but whether youbelieve 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 thedesk!

STRANGER. Yes. But there's no danger; for the bells would ring if therewere an atmospheric disturbance. 

MOTHER. That's blasphemy and black magic. Take care! And what are youdoing 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 youfor that; but don't judge too quickly. At any moment I expect to get asworn statement of analysis. 

MOTHER. I dare say. But what are you going to do if Ingeborg doesn'tcome 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 brokenyou 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 bebound to the child. You can't tell in advance. 

STRANGER. I've been providing against that by a great interest, that Ihope 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 ofwhich 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 thethunderstorm breaks. 

STRANGER (going towards the back of the stage). That's going to beinteresting. (A hunting horn is heard in the distance. ) Who's soundingthat horn?

MOTHER. No one knows; and it means nothing good. (She goes out. )

STRANGER (busying himself with the electroscope, and turning his back onthe 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 considertheir number sufficient to risk an attack on those above, they beganto build a tower that was to reach up to Heaven. Those above were thenseized with fear and, in order to protect themselves, broke up theassembled multitude by so confusing their tongues and their minds thattwo people who met could not understand one another, even if they spokethe same language Since then, those above rule by discord: divide andrule. And the discord is upheld by the belief that the truth has beenfound; 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 ofthose above, no one believes him, and he is struck with madness so thatno one ever shall. Since then mortals have been more or less demented, particularly those who are held to be wise, but madmen are in realitythe only wise men; for they can see, hear and feel the invisible, the inaudible and the intangible, though they cannot relate theirexperiences to others. ' Thus Zohar, the wisest of all the books ofwisdom, and therefore one that no one believes. I shall build no towerof Babel, but I shall tempt the Powers into my mousetrap, and sendthem to the Powers below, the subterranean ones, so that they can beneutralised. It is the higher Schedim, who have come between mortalmen and the Lord Zabaoth; and that is why joy, peace and happiness havevanished from the earth. 

LADY (coming back in despair, throwing herself down in front of theSTRANGER and putting her arms round his feet and her head on theground. ) 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 ownnet. 

STRANGER (lifting her up). Stand up, foolish child; and tell me what'shappened. 

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 informationagainst 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 wasthere, he came himself to lay information against me for bearing falsewitness. Then I went to the lawyer and he told me that I could expecta sentence of at least a month. Think of it, my child will be born inprison! 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 onme 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 aboutsomething else, that's nothing to do with this. Did you leave this pursehere? (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, whetherI stole. The first time it happened I wept, because I was still youngand 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! Andthat'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'ssomeone here. 

LADY (turning and seeing the DOCTOR's face; then screaming and hurryingto 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 immortalsoul, 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 thatdeath's the end, nothing remains but to bear everything--to fight, andto 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; findexcuses 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 buthis qualities, and you lose when I compare you with him. 

STRANGER. See how well it's arranged! His sufferings sanctify him, butmine make me abhorrent and laughable! We must face the immutable. We'vedestroyed 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 fromheaven. .. . 

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 destiniesof 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 highabove this frog pond, to which we've both descended. I'll breathe onyour sick conscience so that it heals like a wound. Who am I? A man whohas done what no one else has ever done; who will overthrow the GoldenCalf and upset the tables of the money-changers. I hold the fate of theworld in my crucible; and in a week I can make the richest of the richa 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 menwill 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 andothers? No. I'll do it to paralyse the present order, to disrupt it, asyou'll see! I am the destroyer, the dissolver, the world incendiary;and when all lies in ashes, I shall wander hungrily through the heapsof ruins, rejoicing at the thought that it is all my work: that I havewritten the last page of world history, which can then be held to beended. 

(The face of the DOMINICAN appears at the open window, without beingseen by those on the stage. )

LADY. Then that was the real meaning of your last book! It was noinvention!

STRANGER. No. But in order to write it, I had to link myself with theself of another, who could take everything from me that fettered mysoul. So that my spirit could once more find a fiery blast, on which tomount to the ether, elude the Powers, and reach the Throne, in order tolay the lamentations of mankind at the feet of the Eternal One. .. . (TheDOMINICAN makes the sign of the cross in the air and disappears. ) Who'shere? 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 theCurse 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. Belovčd! 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 mymother 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. Saythat 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 fearI hate you. 

LADY. Then at least give me your hand; as you'd give it to someone indistress. 

STRANGER. I'd like to, but I can't. Someone in me takes pleasure in youragony; but it's not I. I'd like to carry you in my arms and bear yoursuffering 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 takenpossession of my soul; and I'd like to kill myself so as to take thelife 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. TheLADY kisses it. The STRANGER lifts her up and leads her to the door ofthe house. )

Curtain. 

SCENE II

THE 'ROSE' ROOM

[A room with rose-coloured walls; it has small windows with ironlattices and plants in pots. The curtains are rose red; the furniture iswhite 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 andwhite hangings. On the right the door leading out of the house. On theleft a fireplace with a coal fire. In front of it a bath tub, coveredwith a white towel. A cradle covered with white, rose-coloured andlight-blue stuff. Baby clothes are spread out here and there. A greendress hangs on the right-hand wall. Four Sisters of Mercy are on theirknees, facing the door at the back, dressed in the black and white ofAugustinian nuns. The midwife, who is in black, is by the fireplace. The child's nurse wears a peasant's dress, of black and white, fromBrittany. The MOTHER is standing listening by the door at the back. TheSTRANGER is sitting on a chair right and is trying to read a book. Ahat and a brown cloak with a cape and hood hang nearby, and on the floorthere is a small travelling bag. The Sisters of Mercy are singing apsalm. 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. Andwhen 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 longerneeded. 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 tounderstand that the child couldn't be mine. With that you branded yourdaughter a whore; but that means nothing to you, if you can only strikeme 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 thepolice 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 forher. 

STRANGER. What is it?

MAID. There's supposed to be a letter in the dress she left hanginghere. 

STRANGER (looks round and notices the green dress; he goes over to itand takes a letter from the pocket). This is addressed to me, and wasopened 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 forgiveher 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. NowI'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, mywife, into a whore; and branded my unborn child a bastard. You can keepthem both. You've murdered my honour. There's nothing for me to do butto revive it elsewhere. 

MOTHER. You can never forgive!

STRANGER. I can. I forgive you--and I shall leave you. (He puts on thebrown cloak and hat, picks up his stick and travelling bag. ) For if Iwere to stay, I'd soon grow worse than I am now. The innocent child, whose mission was to ennoble our warped relationship, has been defiledby you in his mother's womb and made an apple of discord and a source ofpunishment 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 protectmyself from total destruction. Farewell!

Curtain. 

ACT III

SCENE I

THE BANQUETING HALL

[Room in a hotel prepared for a banquet. There are long tables ladenwith flowers and candelabra. Dishes with peacocks, pheasants in fullplumage, boars' heads, entire lobsters, oysters, salmon, bundles ofasparagus, melons and grapes. There is a musicians' gallery with eightplayers in the right-hand corner at the back. ]

[At the high table: the STRANGER in a frock coat; next to him a CivilUniform with orders; a professorial Frock Coat with an order; and otherblack Frock Coats with orders of a more or less striking kind. At thesecond table a few Frock Coats between black Morning Coats. At the thirdtable clean every-day costumes. At the fourth table dirty and raggedfigures of strange appearance. ]

[The tables are so arranged that the first is furthest to the left andthe fourth furthest to the right, so that the people sitting at thefourth table cannot be seen by the STRANGER. At the fourth table CAESARand the DOCTOR are seated, in shabby clothes. They are the farthest downstage. Dessert has just been handed round and the guests have goldengoblets in front of them. The band is playing a passage in the middleof Mendelssohn's Dead March pianissimo. The guests are talking to oneanother quietly. ]

DOCTOR (to CAESAR). The company seems rather depressed and the dessertcame too soon!

CAESAR. By the way, the whole thing look's like a swindle! He hasn'tmade any gold, that's merely a lie, like everything else. 

DOCTOR. I don't know, but that's what's being said. But in ourenlightened age anything whatever may be expected. 

CAESAR. There's a professor at the high table, who's supposed to be anauthority. 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 alwaysrather mixed. 

DOCTOR. Hm!

CAESAR. You mean, that we. .. Hm. .. . I admit we're not well dressed, butas far as intelligence goes. .. . 

DOCTOR. Listen, Caesar, you're a lunatic in my charge, and you mustavoid 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 thepresence of the great man, who is our guest of honour, and when thecommittee. .. 

CAESAR (to the DOCTOR). That's the government, you know!

PROFESSOR. .. . And when the committee asked me to act as interpreterand to explain the motives that prompted them I was at first doubtfulwhether I could accept the honour. But when I compared my own incapacitywith that of others, I discovered that neither lost in the comparison. 

VOICES. Bravo!

PROFESSOR. Gentlemen! A century of discovery is ending with the greatestof all discoveries--foreseen by Pythagoras, prepared for by Albertus andParacelsus and first carried out by our guest of honour. You will permitme to give this feeble expression of our admiration for the greatest manof a great century. A laurel crown from the society! (He places a laurelfrown on the STRANGER'S head. ) And from the committee: this! (He hangsa shining order round the STRANGER'S neck. ) Gentlemen! Three cheers forthe 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 lastpart of the foregoing speech servants have exchanged the golden gobletsfor 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 ofthe fact that I'm not easy to deceive. .. 

CAESAR. Hear, hear!

STRANGER. .. . That I'm not easily carried away, but I am touched at thesincerity so obvious in the great tribute you've just paid me; and whenI say touched, I mean it. 

CAESAR. Bravo!

STRANGER. There are always sceptics; and moments in the life of everyman, when doubts creep into the hearts of even the strongest. I'llconfess that I myself have doubted; but after finding myself the objectthis sincere and hearty demonstration, and after taking part in thisroyal feast, for it is royal; and seeing that, finally, the governmentitself. .. 

VOICE. The committee!

STRANGER. .. . The committee, if you like, has so signally recognised mymodest merits, I doubt no longer, but believe! (The Civil Uniform creepsout. ) Yes, gentlemen, this is the greatest and most satisfying momentof my life, because it has given me back the greatest thing any man canpossess, 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 militarybearing 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 myincognito. Is it true he's made gold?

DOCTOR. So it's said. But it's certain he left his wife while she was inchildbed. 

FATHER. Does that mean I can expect a third son-in-law soon? I don'tlike the idea! The uncertainty of my position makes me hate beinga 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 havebeen removed, so that the tables themselves, which are merely boardssupported on trestles, are all that remain. A big stoneware jug hasbeen brought in and small jugs of simple form have been put on the hightable. The people in rags sit down next to the STRANGER at the hightable; and the FATHER sits astride a chair and stares at him. )

CAESAR (knocking on the table). Gentlemen! This feast has been calledroyal, not on account of the excellence of the service which, on thecontrary, 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 judgeof that. (One of the people in rags laughs. ) Quiet. Wretch! But he'smore than a king, he's a man of the people, of the humblest. A friendof the oppressed, the guardian of fools, the bringer of happiness toidiots. I don't know whether he's succeeded in making gold. I don'tworry about that, and I hardly believe it. .. (There is a murmur. Twopolicemen come in and sit by the door; the musicians come down and takeseats at the tables. ). .. But supposing he has, he has answered all thequestions that the daily press has been trying to solve for the lastfifty 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 maybe wrong!

ANOTHER RAGGED PERSON. Don't talk nonsense!

STRANGER. Speaking in my capacity as guest of honour at this gathering Ishould say that it would be of interest to those taking part to hear thegrounds 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 allowedto explain himself. Couldn't our guest of honour tell the company hissecret in a few words?

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

CAESAR. Then the whole thing's nonsense, the whole thing! We don'tbelieve authorities--we're free-thinkers. Did you ever hear anythingso impudent? That we should honour a mystery man, an arch-swindler, acharlatan, in good faith. 

FATHER. Wait a little, my good people!

(During this scene a wall screen, charmingly decorated with palm treesand birds of paradise, has been taken away, disclosing a wretchedserving-counter and stand for beer mugs, behind which a waitress is seendispensing tots of spirits. Scavengers and dirty-looking women go overto 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 saidanything 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 usedarch-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 thetable so hard with his crutch, that some mugs are broken. ) Mr. Chairman!May I speak? (He breaks some more crockery. ) Gentlemen, in this lifeI've not allowed thyself to be easily deceived, but this time I havebeen. My friend in the chair there has convinced me that I've beencompletely deceived on the question of his power of judgment and soundunderstanding, and I feel touched. There are limits to pity and limitsalso to cruelty. I don't like to see real merit being dragged into thedust, and this man's worth a better fate than his folly's leading himto. 

STRANGER. What does this mean?

(The FATHER and the DOCTOR have gone out during this scene withoutattracting attention. Only beggars remain at the high table. Those whoare drinking gather into groups and stare at the STRANGER. )

BEGGAR. You take yourself to be the man of the century, and accept theinvitation of the Drunkards' Society, in order to have yourself fęted asa man of science. .. . 

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

BEGGAR. Oh yes, the Committee of the Drunkards' Society have given youtheir 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 hedoes give lessons. And the uniform that must have impressed you most wasthat 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 behalfof the Society, for so they call themselves, and asked you whether you'daccept the fęte. You accepted it; so it became serious!

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

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

STRANGER. What's this mean?

BEGGAR. It's the last part of the reception; and it's supposed to meanthat 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. Andyou'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 asthis!

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

SECOND WOMAN. No. It's not what you think. But I once came across aprinted paper, when I was about to be confirmed, which said that it wasa duty to oneself to give way to all desires of the flesh. Well, I grewfree 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 paidfirst. 

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

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

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

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

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 thestation; we'll arrange things there. (He writes something in hisnote-book. )

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

BEGGAR. Anything's to be expected, once you challenge persons aspowerful as you have! Let me tell you this in confidence. You'd betterbe 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 stretchedout--and writes a bill. And another hand's laid on the guest's shoulderand 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 goingto 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'tquite 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 isdarkened, and a medley of scenes, representing landscapes, palaces, rooms, is lowered and brought forward; so that characters and furnitureare no longer seen, but the STRANGER alone remains visible and seems tobe 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 rayof 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 atthe table looking at the patch of sunlight. The door is opened and theBEGGAR is let in. ]

BEGGAR. What are you brooding over?

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

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 haswithdrawn the certificate he gave you for making gold. He says, in thispaper, that you deceived him. The result is that the paper calls you acharlatan!

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 settleeverything. 

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 betaken 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 havea stepfather. Who is he?

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

STRANGER. My children! O God, my children!

BEGGAR. I notice you didn't foresee what's happened; but why not lookahead, 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. Whensuch 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 asan experiment. 

STRANGER. This is irrevocable. Irrevocable!

BEGGAR. Yes, it is. Quite irrevocable. And you can live anotherlifetime, 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, toask about my affairs. You once scorned the friendship I offered you, andfell straightway into the arms of boon companions. I hope it'll do yougood. 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 havingbeen at that immortal banquet in the alchemist's honour, of whichthere'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 suchmisery?

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 fora chimera. 

STRANGER. Is it possible I could have been wrong? If so it's the devil'swork, 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 thedistance. ) What's that? (A sustained note of a horn is heard. ) That'sthe unknown huntsman! (The chord from the Dead March is heard. ) Where amI? (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 asbefore. )

Curtain. 

SCENE III

THE 'ROSE' ROOM

[The same scene as Act I. The kneeling Sisters of Mercy are now readingtheir prayer books, '. .. Exules filii Evae; Ad to suspiramus et flentesIn hac lacrymarum aalle. ' The MOTHER is by the door at the back; theFATHER 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 yourmistress. You, who were so dishonourable as to expect me, your wife, tochoose 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 youknow that her feelings for you have grown hostile. That's why I ask youto go; before she suspects your presence. 

FATHER. You're right, and I can't answer you. But let me sit in thekitchen, 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'there?

MOTHER. Am I to lay bare all this misery? Don't you know your daughter'stragic 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. Andnow they say the lake up there's to be drained, so that the river willrise. .. . 

MOTHER (pushing him out of the door). Silence. Misfortune will overtakeus 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 withthe 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 myworst 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 nolonger. 

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

STRANGER. And when there was only one left, he found that too; happilyfor 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 adistance. 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 thegreen coat, which is hanging near the dress by fireplace. ) I mustbe dead. I dreamed this, and now it's happening. My children have astepfather!

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 haveone. 

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 inprayer. 

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'mafraid 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 letthat innocent child come near me, for I'm a man already damned, alreadysentenced, and for me there's no joy, no peace, and no. .. Forgiveness!

MOTHER. My son, now you're speaking words of wisdom! Truthfully andwithout 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 avagabond. 

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, andfurnished with unpainted wooden tables. Beggars, scavengers and loosewomen. Cripples are seated here and there drinking by the light oftallow 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 isdrinking 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 thatwould harden my skin against the pricks of life. To find immoral supportabout 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 almostbeautiful. 

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 alover once and we had a child. 

STRANGER. That was foolish!

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

STRANGER (tortured). And then. .. ?

WOMAN. Then he left me. 

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

WOMAN (looking at him. ) You think so?

STRANGER. Yes. He must have been. 

WOMAN. Now you're so intolerant. 

STRANGER (drinking). Am I?

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

STRANGER. What illusions you must have! Childish! I lift you up! I whoam down below. Yet I'm not; it's not I who sit here, for I'm dead. Iknow that my soul's far away, far, far away. .. . (He stares in frontof him with an absent-minded air). .. Where a great lake lies in thesunshine like molten gold; where roses blossom on the wall amongstthe vines; where a white cot stands under the acacias. But the child'sasleep and the mother's sitting beside the cot doing crochet work. There's a long, long strip coming from her mouth and on the stripis written. .. Wait. .. 'Blessed are the sorrowful, for they shall becomforted. ' But that's not so, really. I shall never be comforted. Tellme, 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! Butit doesn't. I've never been frightened of a thunderstorm until to-day--Imean, 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 theSTRANGER, 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 myheart's stopped. (He puts his hand to his heart. ) Yes. It has! So I'mdead, and I know when I died. Strange, to be dead, and yet to be goingabout. But where am I? Are all these people dead, too? They look asif they'd risen from the sewers of the town, or as if they'd comefrom 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 possessedanything worthy of envy! The fire of sleep courses through their veins, their tongues cleave to their palates, grown dry through cursing; andthen they put out the blaze with water, with fire-water, that engendersfresh thirst. With fire-water, that itself burns with a blue flame andconsumes the soul like a prairie fire, that leaves nothing behind it butred 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 memoryof 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. Soill, 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 behindyou, 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 havegood taste. Sometimes not. 

STRANGER. And sometimes you have the misfortune to have the same tasteas I. 

DOCTOR. That wasn't a kind remark! But you've killed me twice in yourlifetime; 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. AndI shall reach you, as the thunder will, whether you hide in the depthsof 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 withouttaking on yourself the sorrows others have brought on themselves. Thatman won't bear his own sorrows, but makes his wife shoulder the burdenfor him. 

STRANGER. What's that? Wait! She bore false witness of a breach of thepeace 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 thetable. In the far distance a violin and guitar are heard playing thefollowing 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 verysoftly. )

STRANGER. Is it morning? Night's passing, the sun's rising and ghostslie 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 wretchedbeing, 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'tbelieve anything at all, for every time I have, I've been deceived. Buttell me this hasn't the sun yet risen? A little while ago I heard a cockcrow and a dog bark; and now they're ringing the Angelus. .. . Have theyput 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'sEnvy. .. . 

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 Ipossessed something you could never let. 

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

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

STRANGER. I know we've sunk very low; yet I believe the deeper I sinkthe 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 ofcorpses 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 theswimming bath, the gymnasium. .. . (He clutches his heart. ) Oh! Now he'scoming: the Terrible One, who tears the heart out of the breast. TheTerrible One, who's been following me for years. He's here!

(He is beside himself. The doors are thrown open; a choir boy comes incarrying a lantern made of blue glass that throws a blue light on theguests; he rings the silver bell. All present begin to howl like wildbeasts. The DOMINICAN then enters with the sacrament. The WAITRESSand the WOMAN throw themselves on their knees, the others howl. TheDOMINICAN raises the monstrance; all fall on their knees. The choir boyand 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 tobring a charge of slander against me, because she couldn't stay out atnight. 

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 themistress of a married man, whom she denounced for rape, after she'dforced 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 ofpromise, so I had to marry her. She'd engaged two detectives to see Ididn't get away. And that was the woman you married!

STRANGER. I did it because I soon saw it was no good choosing when allwere 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 toaccept her as she was. Charming, intoxicating!

STRANGER. Yes, I know. But one's powerless against pity. That's why Idon't want to fight this case. I can't defend myself without attackingher; 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 everythingevil'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, brokenup into atoms, and used as an ingredient in the great pan-cake. Awaywith you hell! (To those present. ) Howl like victims of the pit. (Theguests all howl. ) And no more womanly pity. Howl, woman! (The WOMANrefuses 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 afoot-bridge. In the foreground a smithy and a mill, both of which arein ruins. Fallen trees choke the stream. In the background a starry skyabove 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; inthe background the green of summer. ]

STRANGER. I feel afraid! To-night the stars seem to hang so low, that Ifear 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 myhoneymoon journey. But where are the smithy and the mill?

BEGGAR. All in ruins! The lake of tears was drained a week ago. Thestream 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, thatno 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'vebeen punished. 

BEGGAR. But others certainly won't think so. 

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

BEGGAR. Set men free from their duties, and criminals from their feelingof guilt, so that they could really become unscrupulous! You're not thefirst, and not the last to dabble in the Devil's work. Lucifer a nonlucendo! But when Reynard grows old, he turns monk--so wisely is itordained--and then he's forced to split himself in two and drive outBeelzebub with his own penance. 

STRANGER. Shall I be driven to that?

BEGGAR. Yes. Though you don't want it! You'll be forced to preachagainst yourself from the housetops. To unpick your fabric thread bythread. To flay yourself alive at every street corner, and show whatyou really are. But that needs courage. All the same, a man who's playedwith the thunder will not tremble! Yet, sometimes, when night falls andthe 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 theseven-and-seventeen Wise Men said that the greatest victory he everwon was over himself; but foolish men don't believe it, and that's whythey're deceived; because they only credit what nine-and-ninety foolshave 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 thefoot-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! Mychildren! (The children stop to listen, and then look at the STRANGERwithout seeming to recognise him. The STRANGER calls. ) Gerda! Erik!Thyra! It's your father! (The children appear to recognise him; theyturn 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 theleft and disappear. The STRANGER falls on his face on the ground. )

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

STRANGER (raising himself up). Where am I? Where have I been? Isit spring, winter or summer? In what century am I living, in whathemisphere? Am I a child or an old man, male or female, a god or adevil? And who are you? Are you, you; or are you me? Are those my ownentrails that I see about me? Are those stars or bundles of nerves in myeye; is that water, or is it tears? Wait! Now I'm moving forward in timefor a thousand years, and beginning to shrink, to grow heavier and tocrystallise! Soon I'll be re-created, and from the dark waters of Chaosthe Lotus flower will stretch up her head towards the sun and say: it isI! I must have been sleeping for a few thousand years; and have dreamedI'd exploded and become ether, and could no longer feel, no longersuffer, 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 andhave no right to complain. .. . 

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

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 himselffrom the parapet; then the DOCTOR appears on the right, with bare headand a wild look. He behaves as if he would throw himself into the streamtoo. )

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

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

STRANGER. That's a harder fate. Poor creature, what can one do? Even ifI 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 crochetwork. The green dress is hanging up by the door on the right. TheSTRANGER comes in, and looks round in astonishment. ]

LADY (simply, mildly, without a trace of surprise). Tread softly andcome 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 towardsthe cradle. The LADY lifts the curtain. ) She's lovely! Isn't she? (TheSTRANGER 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 theneighbourhood, followed by his sister, who's searching for him? He'spenniless, 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 freeyou 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 trustyou 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'reof the same mind. .. . 

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

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. Thatit'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 Sundayafternoon, 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 thepocket 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 abanquet 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. Readit!

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

LADY. Those whom the gods would destroy they first make blind! Youmade your discovery with no good intentions, and therefore you weren'tpermitted 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 myselfalive, 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 nosuch thing, and so you become one yourself. And then I was to save youfrom evil by taking all the evil in you on myself, and I did so; but theresult was that you only became more evil. My poor deliverer! Now you'rebound 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 myleave in there. 

LADY. Yes, my dear. Do!

(The STRANGER goes out through the door at the back. The LADY crossesto the door on the right and lets in the DOMINICAN--who is also theBEGGAR. )

CONFESSOR. Is he ready now?

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

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

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 ofmalice 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 hecould, 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 easehis burden a little; where it presses on him most and where he's leastto blame?

CONFESSOR. You must do that, not I; so that he can leave you in thebelief that you've a good side, and that you're not what your firsthusband 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, inthe 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 comehere? But isn't he the beggar, after all?

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

STRANGER. What? Have I. .. ?

CONFESSOR. Yes. Once already you promised me your soul, on oath, whenyou lay ill and felt near madness. It was then you offered to serve thepowers of good; but when you got well again you broke your oath, andtherefore were plagued with unrest, and wandered abroad unable to findpeace--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 hislife 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 whopunished my faithlessness and another's lack of conscience. 

STRANGER. His sin cannot justify mine. Of course it's untrue, likeeverything 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 himfor a drink of water; but he gave me wine instead and let me sit at histable. 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 ourgod-like origin. Let's go, before it grows dark. 

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

LADY. Don't hurt him!

STRANGER (with passion). How beautifully she can speak, though she isevil. 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'llwake 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 aprojecting tongue of land covered with old willow trees. Fartherup stage the river can be seen flowing quietly past. The backgroundrepresents the farther bank, a steep mountain slope covered withwoodland. Above the tops of the forest trees the Monastery can be seen;it is an enormous four-cornered building completely white, with two rowsof small windows. The façade is broken by the Church belonging to theMonastery, which is flanked by two towers in the style favoured by theJesuits. The Church door is open, and at a certain moment the monstranceon the altar is visible in the light of the sun. On the near bank in theforeground, which is low and sandy, purple and yellow loose-strife aregrowing. A shallow boat is moored nearby. On the left the ferryman'shut. 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 treeson the far bank sway gently in the breeze. Only the Monastery is lit bythe sun. ]

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

STRANGER. Why do you lead me along this winding, hilly path, that nevercomes to an end?

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

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

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

STRANGER. Haven't I said enough farewells already? Wasn't my whole lifeone thorny path of farewells? At post offices, steamer-quays, railwaystations--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 capacityfor suffering?

CONFESSOR. And for enjoyment?

STRANGER. I never enjoyed anything, for I was born with a thorn in myflesh; every time I stretched out my hand to grasp a pleasure, I prickedmy 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 oflife; 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 ableto do what no one else can do? I of all men? Because I'm supposed to bea scoundrel. Because more's demanded of me than of others. .. . (Cryingout. ) 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 withoutpreparation?

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 specialvirtue of mine; it's for that very reason that I want to make the greatattempt. 

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 ofinnocent children, the pleasant warmth of home, the approbation of yourfellow-men, the satisfaction brought by the fulfilment of duty--are youindifferent to them all?

STRANGER. Yes! Because I was born without the power of enjoyment. Therehave been moments when I've been an object of envy; but I've neverunderstood what it was I was envied for: my sufferings in misfortune, mylack 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; evena little gold at the last. Why, I even seem to remember that a sculptorwas 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 foundedappreciation, that neither envy nor lack of understanding can shake. 

CONFESSOR. You think so? It seems to me that human greatness residesin the good opinion of others; and that, if this opinion changes, thegreatest 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 beenso humble! All have demanded my respect; whilst they spurned me and spaton me. And when at last I found I'd duties towards the immortal soulgiven 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 theproudest 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 nothingbut contradictions. The rich are the poor in spirit; the many little menhold the power, and the great only serve the little men. I've never metsuch proud people as the humble; I've never met an uneducated man whodidn't believe himself in a position to criticise learning and to dowithout it. I've found the unpleasantest of deadly sins amongst theSaints: I mean self-complacency. In my youth I was a saint myself; butI'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 seekingdeath without the need to die!

CONFESSOR. The mortification of your flesh, of your old self! Good! Nowkeep still: the pilgrims are coming on their wooden rafts to celebratethe 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 monstrancein 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, withgarlands on their heads and with lighted lanterns in their hands, areseen standing round an altar decked with flowers, on which a white flagwith a golden lily has been planted. They sing, whilst the raft glidesslowly by. )

 Blessčd 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; Blessčd 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. Ithas 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 uponit: 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 arepresentation of a fir-tree under snow. )

 See, how blessčd 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 otherthings. 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 sayfamous--person; but over there, on the other, you'll be quite unknown tothe 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'texist?

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 ofpossibility. 

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 sangall day long like a wren. It's some years since I saw her; she must bea girl of sixteen now. But I'm afraid if I were to meet her, life wouldregain 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 tothe 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 younggirl. She is wearing summer clothing, her head is bare and her fair hairis hanging loose. She gets out of the boat behind the willow tree. TheCONFESSOR draws back until he is near the ferryman's hut, but remainsin sight of the audience. The STRANGER has waved to the girl and she hasanswered him. She now comes on to the stage, runs into the STRANGER'Sarms, 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 sowell. 

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 weparted. 

STRANGER. When we. .. Parted!

DAUGHTER. When you left us. .. . (The STRANGER does not reply. ) Aren't youglad 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 cometo think of it, perhaps it's best. 

STRANGER. You think so?

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

STRANGER. Tell _me_ one thing, my child, that's been worrying me morethan 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 thebank 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 childthat has got up too early; I can hear it by your voice, that's no longerthat of a warbler, but a jay; I can feel it in your kisses, that burncold like the sun in May; and by your steady icy look that tells meyou're nursing a secret of which you're ashamed, but of which you'd liketo 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 shewas!

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

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

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 nolonger, but is merely a name, a memory. (He takes a guide-book out ofhis pocket. ) Look at this guide-book! Can you see small marks made hereby tiny fingers, and others by little damp lips? You made them when youwere five years old; you were sitting on my knee in the train, and wesaw 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 ifyou could kiss the name in the book. 

DAUGHTER. I don't remember that!

STRANGER. Delightful memories pass, but hateful ones remain! Don't youremember 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 palelittle angel, who slept in my arms when she was ill; and who thankedme when I gave her a present. Where is she whom I long for so andwho exists no more, although she isn't dead? You, as you are, seem astranger, whom I've never known and certainly don't long to seeagain. If Sylvia at least were dead and lay in her grave, there'd be achurchyard where I could take my flowers. .. . How strange it is! She'sneither among the living, nor the dead. Perhaps she never existed, andwas only a dream like everything else. 

DAUGHTER (wheedling). Father, dear!

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

DAUGHTER. Yes. But why speak of it now?

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

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 evendreaming 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 reachme 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 toweep!

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

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

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

STRANGER. You mean this? Very well. (He opens the book, kisses one ofthe 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 ofwine. 

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

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

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

CONFESSOR. No wine; and you'll see no women. You may hear singing; butnot 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 thattheme. 

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'sbeautiful. .. . 

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

STRANGER. And oblivion, and songs, and power--imaginary power, but forthat 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. .. . Fora moment I saw a flag unfurling in a puff of wind, only to fall backon the flagstaff and hang there limply as if it were nothing but adishcloth. 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 seenothing. 

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

(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 shadowacross the bank and the river. The LADY enters from the right, in deepmourning. Her shadow slowly approaches that of the STRANGER. )

STRANGER (who, to begin with, looks only at his own shadow). Ah! Thesun! It makes me a bloodless shape, a giant, who can walk on the waterof the river, climb the mountain, stride over the roof of the monasterychurch, and rise, as he does now, up into the firmament--up to thestars. Ah, now I'm up here with the stars. .. . (He notices the shadowthrown by the LADY. ) But who's following me? Who's interrupting myascension? 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 throwherself on to his breast, but he avoids her. ) I congratulate the deadchild. 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 yougoing?

LADY. I want to cross with the ferry. 

STRANGER. Then I've no luck, for I wanted to do the same. (The LADYweeps into her handkerchief. The STRANGER takes it from her and driesher eyes. ) Dry your eyes, child, and be yourself! As hard, and lackingin feeling, as you really are! (The LADY tries to put her arm round hisneck. The STRANGER taps her gently on the fingers. ) You mustn't touchme. When your words and glances weren't enough, you always wanted totouch 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 areyou 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 endto your misery! How like me you are! What a pity there's no monasteryfor both sexes, so that we could pair off together. Is the werewolfstill 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 fromthe world and its pettiness, tell me this: why did you leave him inthose 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'dgiven 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 canlive with a person and their relations for twenty years, and yet notknow 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 hadthe masculine courage to be rude to a lady. In me you sought thecompanionship of a human being and not merely of a woman. That honouredme; 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 ofhis 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 leastI've understood most. Besides, what I said just how is perhaps onlyimprovised, as you call it, and not true in the least. 

STRANGER. But if it agrees with many of my observations it becomes mostprobable. (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 nightwatching over your child, who was lying in your bed, because her cradlewas 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 meanything 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 withoutmoney. 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 allthat was beautiful and good in the child would have blossomed in thegirl. .. . 

LADY. Well?

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

LADY. Oh!

STRANGER. You mustn't grieve. Not for the child! You might perhaps havehad 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 burymyself alive. 

LADY. Where?

STRANGER (pointing to the monastery). Up there!

LADY. In the monastery? No, don't leave me. Bear me company. I'm soalone in the world and so poor, so poor! When the child died, my motherturned me out, and ever since I've been living in an attic with adressmaker. At first she was kind and pleasant, but then the lonelyevenings got too long for her, and she went out in search of company--sowe parted. Now I'm on the road, and I've nothing but the clothes I'mwearing; nothing but my grief. I eat it and drink it; it nourishes meand 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 youtill you left your fireside and your child!

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

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; andthat'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 carryingover her arm, rolled it up and put it on her knee like a baby in longclothes. ) Sleep! Sleep! Sleep! Think of it! I can see her here! She'ssmiling at me; but she's dressed in black; she seems to be in mourningtoo! How stupid I am! Her mother's in mourning! She's got two teethdown below, and they're white--milk teeth; she should never have cut anyothers. 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 lookafter 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 meunfulfilled. This woman's on the road, deserted, without a home, withoutmoney!

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 aSister of Mercy here, to look after this unhappy one, who. .. Who. .. TheSister will soon be here!

STRANGER. I shall count on it. 

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

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 tospring up and hold him back; but she is prevented by the imaginary childshe 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 lefta small pool, round which invalids are sitting. Their clothes are blueand their hands cinnabar-red. From the pond blue vapour and small blueflames rise now and then. Whenever this happens the invalids put themhands to their mouths and cough. The background is formed by a mountaincovered with pine-wood, which is obscured above by a stationary bank ofmist. ]

[The STRANGER is sitting at a table outside one of the huts. TheCONFESSOR 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 cameback. 

CONFESSOR. Hadn't I prepared you for the fact that the way to the whitehouse 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 whyare their hands so red?

CONFESSOR. For both our sakes I want to avoid using impure words, soI'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 planetscorrespond with those of certain metals? Good! Then you'll have seenthat Venus is represented by a mirror. This mirror was originally madeof copper, so that copper was called Venus and bore her stamp. But nowthe 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 heightof summer; but when mercury meets firestone and burns, it blushes andturns red like newly-shed blood, like the cloth on the scaffold, likethe 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 sulphursprings. .. . 

STRANGER. How does the source of life grow tainted?

CONFESSOR. When Aphrodite, born of the pure seafoam, wallows in themire. .. . When Aphrodite Urania, the heaven-born, degrades herself toPandemos, 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 tosupport his gaze. )

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

CONFESSOR. Yes, I'll steal the air you use to form rebellious words, andask outrageous questions. Sit down there, I'll come back--when you'velearnt patience and undergone your probation. But don't forget that Ican 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. TheSTRANGER 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. ) Maiawas the nurse in my first family. .. During those hard years. .. When Iwas fighting the Invisible Ones, who wouldn't bless my work! I wrotetill my brain and nerves dissolved like fat in alcohol. .. But it wasn'tenough! I was one of those who never could earn enough. And the day camewhen I couldn't pay the maids their wages--it was terrible--and I becamethe servant of my servant, and she became my mistress. At last. .. Inorder, at least, to save my soul, I fled from what was too powerful forme. I fled into the wilderness, where I collected my spirit in solitudeand recovered my strength! My first thought then was--my debts! Forseven years I looked for Maia, but in vain! For seven years I saw hershadow, out of the windows of trains, from the decks of steamers, instrange towns, in distant lands, but without ever being able to findher. I dreamed of her for seven years; and whenever I drank a glassof wine I blushed at the thought of old Maia, who perhaps was drinkingwater 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. ) Explainthis, if you can! I want to pay my debt; I can pay it now, but I'm notallowed to. 

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

STRANGER. Later. Everything comes later. 

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

STRANGER. What? You back again? The same and not the same? How beautifulyou'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 moreyou have a mirror of beauty in your eye. The werewolf never thought mebeautiful, 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 theanswer, 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 seatlike a lost and helpless child, with a broken look in your eyes, andstared at your own destiny. .. . A maternal feeling I'd never known beforewelled up in me then, and I was overcome with pity, pity for a humansoul--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 drewdown my veil; so that it was between us, like the knight's sword in thebridal 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 maskand the false beard. Now I can see the man you hid from me, the man Ithought I'd found in you. .. The man I was always searching for. I'veoften thought you a hypocrite; but we're no hypocrites. No, no, we can'tpretend. 

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

LADY (kindly). So difficult. So difficult. Tell me, for instance--nowwe'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. Onthe contrary! Ever since I was eight years old I've always had some loveaffair, preferably an innocent one. And I've loved like a volcano threetimes! But wait--I've always felt that women hated me. .. And they'vealways tortured me. 

LADY. How strange!

STRANGER. Let me think about it a little. .. . Perhaps I've been jealousof my own personality; and been afraid of being influenced too much. Myfirst 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, ifthey're superior to them, that is!

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

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

LADY (kindly). Solomon knew much of women; do you know what he said? 'Ifind more bitter than death a woman, whose heart is snares and nets andher hands as bands; whoso pleaseth God shall escape from her; but thesinner 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 goodword addressed to me! Have I never done a good action? Is it possiblefor a man never to have done anything good? (Pause. ) It's terrible neverto hear any good words about oneself!

LADY. You've heard them. But when people have spoken well of you, you'verefused 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 theinexplicable. 'When I applied my heart to know wisdom. .. I beheld allthe 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 beable 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! Howpale she's grown. .. And she seems to know where Mizzi is, for she'salways gazing up to heaven, whichever way I hold her. Look! Her eyesfollow the stars as the compass the pole. She is my compass and alwaysshows 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 wenever had money? Because God was angry with us for our sins. 'Therighteous suffer no dearth. '

STRANGER. Where did you learn that?

LADY. In a book in which everything's written. Everything! (She wrapsthe doll up in her cloak. ) See, she's beginning to get cold--that'sbecause 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 anythinghorrible now. 

STRANGER. Ingeborg! I have made you evil, yet you're on the way to makeme 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 ofvalue to me if I couldn't lay it at a woman's feet. Not as a tributeto an overbearing mistress, . .. But as a sacrifice to the beautifuland good. It was my pleasure to give; but she wanted to take and notreceive: that's why she hated me! When I was helpless and thought theend was near, a desire grew in me to fall asleep on a mother's knee, ona tremendous breast where I could bury my tired head and drink in thetenderness I'd been deprived of. 

LADY. You had no mother?

STRANGER. Hardly! And I've never felt any bond between myself and myfather or my brothers and sisters. .. . Ingeborg, I was the son of aservant 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--thathe was a scoffer. And then it goes on: 'He will be a wild man, his handwill be against every man, and every man's hand against him; and againstall 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 mostinquisitive!

STRANGER. Call me your child, and then I'll love you. .. . And if Ilove anyone, I long to serve them, to obey them, to let myself beill-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'tknow 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 torob her of her last mite. She says nothing--that's the trouble. But Ithink 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 theevil 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 supposeshe'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 mustrespect him; particularly as he seems to have had trouble. But I cansay this to his sister, and he shall hear it: that from the momenthe entered the house I felt that I was blessed. I'd been dogged bymisfortune; I'd no lodger, my only cow had died, my husband was in ahome for drunkards and my children had nothing to eat. I prayed God tosend me help from heaven, because I expected nothing more on earth. Thenthis gentleman came. And apart from giving me double what I asked, hebrought 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 herblessing! And I, who'm damned, have brought a blessing on her! How can Ibelieve it? I, of all men! (He falls down by the table and weeps in hishands. )

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

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

LADY. You hear what she says!

HOSTESS. There's only one thing about him I don't understand; but Idon'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 hateeverything animal, in myself and others. I don't hate animals on thataccount, 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'tbelieve 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, mychild; 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 werethe 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'velived your life in my spirit, suffered your pains, enjoyed yourpleasures--pleasure rather, for you'd no others than what your childgave you. I alone have seen the beauty of your soul--my friend here hasdivined it; that's why he felt attracted to you--but the evil in himwas too strong; you had to draw it out of him into yourself to freehim. Then, being evil, you had to suffer the worst pains of hell for hissake, 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 goeswith her into the background. The STRANGER makes a movement. ) You'reimpatient? You mustn't be! (He goes out. The STRANGER remains sittingalone. The WORSHIPPERS OF VENUS get up, go towards him and form a circleround 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. Letme 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 itfar 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). Theworm! You can make him believe whatever you like. That comes from hisunbelievable pride. Does he think he's the mainspring of the universe, the originator of all evil? This foolish man believes he taught youth togo in search of Venus; as if youth hadn't done that long before he wasborn! His pride's insupportable, and he's been rash enough to try tobotch my work for me. Give him another greeting, lying Erik! (The SECONDVOICE--that is the youth--bends over the STRANGER and whispers in hisear. ) There were seven deadly sins; but now there are eight. The eighthI discovered! It's called despair. For to despair of what is good, and not to hope for forgiveness, is to call. .. (He hesitates beforepronouncing the word God, as if it burnt his lips. ) God wicked. That iscalumny, denial, blasphemy. .. . Look how he winces!

STRANGER (rising quickly, and looking the TEMPTER to the eyes). Who areyou?

TEMPTER. Your brother. Don't we resemble one another? Some of yourfeatures seem to remind me of my portrait. 

STRANGER. Where have I seen it?

TEMPTER. Almost everywhere! I'm often to be found in churches, thoughnot amongst the saints. 

STRANGER. I can't remember. .. . 

TEMPTER. Is it so long since you've been to church? I'm usuallyrepresented with St. George. (The STRANGER totters and would like tofly, but cannot. ) Michael and I are sometimes to be seen in a group, inwhich, to be sure, I don't appear in the most favourable light; but thatcan 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 badlywith you, but that can be altered too. .. If you've enough intelligenceto 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 sitdown. We'll have a chat. .. . (He takes the STRANGER jocularly by the earand leads him round the table. ) Sit down and tremble, young man! (Theyboth 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 insearch of mental dissipation. .. . So you're on your way to those holy menup 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 ortwice; to those that bind souls rather than free them. .. . And talking ofthat! 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? Throughrenunciation and abstinence, you've grown so weak that anyone can seizeyour soul and take possession of it. Why, they can even do it from adistance! You've so destroyed your personality that you see with strangeeyes, hear with strange ears and think strange thoughts. In a wordyou've murdered your own soul. Just now, didn't you speak well of theenemies of mankind; of Woman, who made a hell of paradise? You needn'tanswer 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 awoman, 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 amale friend, many of them! You've let them convince you you're no womanhater. But the woman gave you the right answer; every healthy man's awoman hater, but can't live without linking himself to his enemy, andso 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 yourselfresponsible for their misery? They're tough fellows, you can believeme; they'll be able to leave here in a few days and go back to theiroccupations. Oh yes, lying Erik's a wag! But things have gone so farwith you, that you can't distinguish between your own and other people'schildren. Wouldn't it be a great thing to escape from all this? What doyou say? Oh, I could free you. .. But I'm no saint. Now we'll call oldMaia. (He whistles between his fingers: MAIA appears. ) Ah, there youare! Well, what are you doing here? Have you any business with thisfellow?

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'veall been told that! Now, old Maia, what kind of story is it he prattlesof? He says he was plagued with remorse for seven years because he owedyou money. 

MAIA. He owed me a small sum once; but I got it back from him--and withgood interest--much better than the savings bank would have given me. Itwas very good of him--very kind. 

STRANGER (starting up). What's that you said? Is it possible I'veforgotten?

TEMPTER. Have you the receipt, Maia? If so, give it me. 

MAIA. The gentleman must have the receipt; but I've got the savings bankbook here. He paid the money into it in my name. (She produces a savingsbank book, and hands it to the STRANGER, who looks at it. )

STRANGER. Yes, that's quite right. Now I remember. Then why thisseven-year torment, shame and disgrace? Those reproaches duringsleepless nights? Why? Why? Why?

TEMPTER. Old Maia, you can go now. But first say something nice aboutthis self-tormentor. Can't you remember any human quality in this wildbeast, whom human beings have baited for years?

STRANGER (to MAIA). Quiet, don't answer him! (He stops his ears with hisfingers. )

TEMPTER. Well, Maia?

MAIA. I know well enough what they say about him, but that refers towhat he writes--and I've not read it for I can't read. Still, no oneneed read it, if they don't want to. Anyhow the gentleman's been verykind. Now he's stopping his ears. I don't know how to flatter; but I cansay this in a whisper. .. . (She whispers some thing to the TEMPTER. )

TEMPTER. Yes. All human beings who are easily moved are baited like wildbeasts! 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 likethat?

STRANGER. No. 

TEMPTER. The hate and malice of our fellow human beings have fastenedthemselves on us. Up there, you know, there are real saints, who'venever done anything wicked themselves, but who suffer for others, forrelations, who've committed unexpiated sins. Those angels, who've takenthe depravity of others on themselves, really resemble bandits. What doyou say to that?

STRANGER. I don't know who you are; but you're the first to answerquestions 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 youever thought that there's as good a reason for this as for everythingelse? Granted the earth's a prison, on which dangerous prisoners areconfined--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 thepresent. 

STRANGER. Good! Don't you think we're sometimes punished wrongly, sothat 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 humanweakness, but that are punished by the most consistent revenge. Everything's revenged, even our injudicious actions. Who forgives? Amagnanimous man-sometimes; heavenly justice, never! (A PILGRIM appearsin the background. ) See! A penitent! I'd like to know what wrong he'sdone. We'll ask him. Welcome to our quiet meadows, peaceful wanderer!Take your place at the simple table of the ascetic, at which there areno 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'sstruck, 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 atan end. When we met at a certain doctor's house, I was shut up thereas a madman and supposed to be suffering from the illusion that I wasCaesar. Now the Stranger shall hear the truth of the matter: I neverbelieved it, but I was forced by scruples of conscience to put a goodface on it. .. . A friend of mine, a bad friend, had written proof that Iwas the victim of a misunderstanding; but he didn't speak when he shouldhave, and I took his silence as a request not to speak either-and tosuffer. Why did I? Well, in my youth I was once in great need. I wasreceived 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 tohis senseless pride. This man, by solitary brooding on his lot, had cometo hold quite extraordinary views about himself. I noticed it, but Isaid nothing. One day this man's wife told me that he was sometimesmentally unbalanced; and then thought he was Julius Caesar. For manyyears I kept this secret conscientiously, for I'm not ungrateful bynature. But life's tricky. It happened a few years later that thisCaesar laid rough hands on my most intimate fate. In anger at this Ibetrayed the secret of his Caesar mania and made my erstwhile benefactorsuch a laughing stock, that his existence became unbearable to him. Andnow 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 Idescribed incidents of family life: how I played with my daughter--shewas called Julia, as Caesar's daughter was--and with my wife, whom wecalled Caesar's wife because no one spoke evil of her. .. . Well, thisrecreation, in which my mother-in-law joined too, cost me dear. When Iwas looking through the proofs of my book, I saw the danger and said tomyself: you'll trip yourself up. I wanted to cut it out but, if you'llbelieve it, the pen refused, and an inner voice said to me: let itstand! It did stand! And I fell. 

STRANGER. Why didn't you publish the letter from your friend that wouldhave explained everything?

PILGRIM. When the disaster had happened I felt at once that it was thefinger 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 putout. And because I accepted my punishment with calmness and humility Godlightened my burden; and I didn't feel myself ridiculous. 

TEMPTER. That's a strange story; but such things happen. Shall we moveon now? We'll go for an excursion, now we've weathered the storms. Pullyourself 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'ssitting to-day. A particularly interesting case is to be tried; and Idare 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 righta rocky cliff and a similar one on the left. In the far background abird's-eye view of a river landscape with towns, villages, ploughedfields and woods; in the very far distance the sea can be seen. Downstage an apple tree laden with fruit. Under it a long table with a chairat the end and benches at the sides. Down stage, right, a corner ofthe village town hall. A cloud seems to be hanging immediately over thevillage. ]

[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 rightby the MAGISTRATE; the witnesses on the left, amongst them the TEMPTER. Members of the public, with the PILGRIM and the STRANGER, are standinghere 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 shameon our small community. Florian Reicher, twenty-three years old, isaccused of shooting at Fritz Schlipitska's affianced wife, with theclear intention of killing her. It's a case of premeditated murder, andthe provisions of the law are perfectly clear. Has the accused anythingto 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 ofcounsel, but in the present case I think the facts are so clear that thepeople have reached a certain conclusion; and the murderer will hardlybe 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 andtake 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 myeighteenth year--it's Florian speaking--and my thoughts, as I grew upunder my mother's watchful eye, were pure; and my heart without deceit, for I'd never seen or heard anything wicked. Then I--Florian, thatis--met a young girl who seemed to me the most beautiful creature I'dever set eyes on in this wicked world, for she was goodness itself. Ioffered her my hand, my heart, and my future. She accepted everythingand swore that she'd be true. I was to serve five years for myRachel--and I did serve, collecting one straw after another for thelittle nest we were going to build. My whole life was centred on thelove 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 atleast 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 freemyself from the unhealthy thoughts her faithlessness had forced on me;for when I tried to tear her picture out of my heart, images of herlovers always rose and crept into my blood, so that at last I seemed tobe living in unlawful relationship with three men--with a woman as thelink between us!

MAGISTRATE. Well, that was jealousy!

ACCUSED MAN. Yes, that was jealousy. 

TEMPTER. Yes, jealousy, that feeling for cleanliness, that seeks topreserve thoughts from pollution by strangers. If I'd been content to donothing, if I'd not been jealous, I'd have got into vicious company, andI didn't want to do that. That's why she had to die so that my thoughtsmight be cleansed of deadly sin, which alone is to be condemned. I'vefinished. 

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, letme speak!

MAGISTRATE. The dead girl's father may speak. 

FATHER. You're accusing a dead girl; and I shall answer. Maria, mychild, has undoubtedly been guilty of a crime and is to blame for themisdeeds 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 ofdefence. (Pause. ) When she was fifteen, Maria fell into the hands of aman who seemed to have made it his business to entrap young girls, muchas a bird-catcher traps small birds. He was no seducer, in the ordinarysense, for he contented himself with binding her senses and entanglingher feelings only to thrust her away and watch how she suffered withtorn wings and a broken heart--tortured by the agony of love, which isworse than any other agony. For three years Maria was cared for in aninstitution for the mentally deranged. And when she came out again, shewas divided, broken into several pieces--it might be said that she wasseveral persons. She was an angel and feared God with one side of herspirit; but with another she was a devil, and reviled all that washoly. I've seen her go straight from dancing and frenzy to her belovedFlorian, and have heard her, in his presence, speak so differently andso 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 toblame, 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 humbleservant, born of poor but fairly honourable parents, was from thebeginning one of those strange birds who, in their youth, go in searchof their Creator--but without ever finding him, naturally! It's moreusual for old cuckoos to look for him in their dotage--and for goodreasons! The urge for this youthful quest was accompanied by a purityof heart and a modesty that even caused his nurses to smile--yes, we canlaugh now when we hear that this boy would only change his underclothingin 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 oldersomething touching! And so we can afford to-day to laugh at his childishinnocence. Scornful laughter, listeners, please. 

MAGISTRATE (seriously). He mistakes his listeners. 

TEMPTER. Then I ought to be ashamed of myself! (Pause. ) He became ayouth--your humble servant--and fell into a series of traps thatwere laid for his innocence. I'm an old sinner, but I blush at thismoment. .. . (He takes of his hat. ) Yes, look at me now--when I think ofthe insight this young man got into the world of Potiphar's wives thatsurrounded him! There wasn't a single woman. .. . Really, I'm ashamed inthe name of mankind and the female sex--excuse me, please. .. . There weremoments when I didn't believe my eyes, but thought a devil had blindedmy sight. The holiest bands. .. . (He pinches his tongue. ) No, quiet!Mankind will feel itself calumniated! Enough, until my twenty-fifthyear I fought the good fight; and I fell because. .. . Well, I was calledJoseph, and I _was_ Joseph! I grew jealous of my virtue, and feltinjured by the glances of a lewd woman. .. . And at last, cunninglyseduced, I fell. Then I became a slave of my passions; often and often Isat by Omphalos and span, until I sank into the deepest degradation andsuffered, suffered, suffered! But in reality it was only my body thatwas degraded; my soul lived her own life--her own pure life, I cansay--on her own account. And I raved innocently for pure young virginswho, it seems, felt the bond that drew us together. Because, withoutboasting, I can say they were attracted to me. I didn't want to overstepthe mark, but they did! And when I fled the danger, their hearts werebroken, 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 thisyoung woman, who went out of her mind? On the contrary, mayn't I countit a virtue that I shrank in horror from the step that brought abouther fall? Who'll cast the first stone at me? No one! Then I mistake mylisteners. Indeed, I thought I might be an object of scorn, if I were toplead 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 thewoman who seduced me when I was young. Come forward, woman, and lookupon your work of destruction. Observe, how the seed has grown!

WOMAN (coming forward with dignity and modesty). It was I! Let mebe 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'llget back to Eve in Paradise. 

TEMPTER. Who was Adam's seducer! That's just where we want to get backto. Eve! Come forward, Eve. Eve! (He waves his cloak in the air. Thetrunk of the tree becomes transparent and EVE appears, wrapped in herhair and with a girdle about her loins. ) Now, Mother Eve, it was you whoseduced our father. You are the accused: what have you to say in yourdefence?

EVE (simply and with dignity). The serpent tempted me!

TEMPTER. Well answered! Eve has proved her innocence. The serpent! Letthe serpent come forward. (EVE disappears. ) The serpent! (The serpentappears 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, theSTRANGER and the LADY. The TEMPTER begins to recover; he then gets upand sits down in an attitude that recalls the classical statue 'ThePolisher, ' or 'The Slave. ') Causa finalis, or the first cause--you can'tdiscover that! For if the serpent's to blame, then we're comparativelyinnocent--but mankind mustn't be told that! The Accused, however, seemsto have got out of this business! And the Court of justice has dissolvedlike 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 thatcan'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 withme. 

STRANGER (fighting his admiration for the TEMPTER). But that about Evewas new. .. . 

LADY. Not at all. I learnt it in my Bible history, when I was eight. Andthat 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 theright 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, andI'll show you God's beautiful world, as I've come to see it, since thetears 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 yourtears? Like meadow banks reflected in troubled water! A chaos of curvedlines in which the trees seemed to be standing on their heads. (Tothe STRANGER. ) No, my son, with my field-glasses, dried in the fire ofhate--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 thingitself, 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 JupiterChronos, such a disputation in this giant amphitheatre of the mountainsdemands a proper audience. Hullo!

LADY. I have mine here: my friend, my husband, my child! If he'll onlylisten 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, whereblessings 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 thydesire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee. ' And thento the man this: 'Cursed is the ground for thy sake, thorns and thistleshall it bring forth to thee, and in the sweat of thy brow shalt thoulabour!' 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, andwe, have made it something evil, and that is why. .. . But he who obeysthe commandments of the Lord dwells on Gerizim, where blessings aregiven. Thus saith the Lord. 'Blessed shalt thou be in the city, andblessed shalt thou be in the field. Blessed shall be thy basket and thystore. Blessed shalt thou be when thou comest in, and blessed when thougoest out. And the Lord shall give rain unto thy land in his seasonto increase thy harvest, and thy children shall flourish. And the Lordshall make thee plenteous in goods, to lend to the peoples, and never toborrow. And the Lord will bless all the work of thy hand, if thou shaltkeep 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 thechild that drew us together; by the strength of a mother's love--amother's--for so have I loved you, erring child, whom I've sought in thedark places of the wood and whom at last I've found, hungry and witheredfor want of love! Come back to me, prodigal one; and bury your tiredhead on my heart, where you rested before ever you saw the light of thesun. (A change comes over her during this speech; her clothing fallsfrom her and she is seen to have changed into a white-robed woman withher hair let down and with a full maternal bosom. )

STRANGER. Mother!

LADY. Yes, my child, your mother! In life I could never caress you--thewill 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 conquerdeath. Didn't you know that? Come, my child, I'll repay where I havebeen to blame. I'll rock you to sleep on my knees. I'll wash you cleanfrom the. .. (She omits the word she cannot bring herself to utter) ofhate and sin. I'll comb your hair, matted with the sweat of fear; andair a pure white sheet for you at the fire of a home--a home you'venever 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 wasraised. 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 beentrembling, now goes to the cliff on the left where the MOTHER standswith open arms. ) I'm coming!

TEMPTER. I can do nothing now. But one day we shall meet again! (Hedisappears behind the cliff. )

Curtain. 

SCENE II

ROCKY LANDSCAPE ON THE MOUNTAIN

[Higher up the mountain; among the clouds a rocky landscape with a boground it. The MOTHER on a rock, climbing until she disappears into thecloud. The STRANGER stops, bewildered. ]

STRANGER. Oh, Mother, Mother! Why are you leaving me? At the very momentwhen 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 aslave 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. Inrelationship 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 deepestpain; our redemption and our fall; our wages and our punishment; ourstrength and our weakness. 

STRANGER. Our shame! You've said so. Explain this riddle to me, youwho'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 ownweakness. 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 wifein company, because I felt she was being soiled by men's glances, and Ithrough 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 herout of wickedness, in order to torture men and master them. As a weddinggift she received a box, containing all the unhappiness of the world. Perhaps the riddle of this sphinx can more easily be guessed, if it'sseen from. Olympus, rather than from the pleasure garden of Paradise. Its full meaning will never be known to us. Though I'm as able asyou. (Pause. ) And, by the way, I can still enjoy the greatest pleasurecreation ever offered! Go you and do likewise!

STRANGER. You mean Satan's greatest illusion! For the woman who seemsmost beautiful to me, can seem horrible to others! Even for me, whenshe's angry, she can be uglier than any other woman. Then what isbeauty?

TEMPTER. A semblance, a reflection of your own goodness! (He puts hishand over his mouth. ) Curses on it! I let it out that time. And now thedevil's loose. .. . 

STRANGER. Devil? Yes. But if she's a devil, how can a devil make medesire virtue and goodness? For that's what happened to me when I firstsaw her beauty; I was seized with a longing to be like her, and so tobe worthy of her. To begin with I tried to be by taking exercise, havingbaths, using cosmetics and wearing good clothes; but I only made myselfridiculous. Then I began from within; I accustomed myself to thinkinggood thoughts, speaking well of people and acting nobly! And one day, when my outward form had moulded itself on the soul within, I became herlikeness, as she said. And it was she who first uttered those wonderfulwords: I love you! How can a devil ennoble us; how can a spirit of hellfill 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 greateternal light--that warms and loves. .. . That loves. .. . 

TEMPTER. What, old friend, must we stand here like two youths and spellout the riddles of love?

CONFESSOR (coming in). What's this chatterer saying? He's talked awayhis 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 drunkardwho's drowned himself in the bog. It must be near here, because I'vebeen 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 atthe 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, helooked like sixty-four. His eyes were as yellow as the slime of a gardensnail and bloodshot from drunkenness; but also because he'd shed tearsof blood over his vices and misery. His face was brown and swollen likea piece of liver on a butcher's table, and he hid himself from men'seyes out of shame--up to the end he seems to have been ashamed of thebroken mirror of his soul, for he covered his face with brushwood. Isaw him fighting his vices; I saw him praying to God on his knees fordeliverance, after he'd been dismissed from his post as a teacher. .. . But. .. Well, now he's been delivered. And look, now the evil's beentaken from him, the good and beautiful that was in him has again becomeapparent; that's what he looked like when he was nineteen! (Pause. ) Thisis sin--imposed as a punishment. Why? That we don't know. 'He whohateth the righteous, shall himself be guilty!' So it is written, as anindication. I knew him when he was young! And now I remember. .. Hewas always very angry with those who never drank. He criticised andcondemned, and always set his cult of the grape on the altar of earthlyjoys! Now he's been set free. Free from sin, from shame, from ugliness. Yes, in death he looks beautiful. Death is the deliverer! (To theSTRANGER. ) Do you hear that, Deliverer, you who couldn't even free adrunkard 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 meetagain. (He goes out. )

CONFESSOR. I saw you just now with a woman! So there are stilltemptations?

STRANGER. Not the kind you mean. 

CONFESSOR. Then what kind?

STRANGER. I could still imagine a reconciliation between mankind andwoman--through woman herself! And indeed, through that woman who was mywife and has now become what I once held her to be having been purifiedand lifted up by sorrow and need. But. .. 

CONFESSOR. But what?

STRANGER. Experience teaches; the nearer, the further off: the furtherfrom one another, the nearer one can be. 

CONFESSOR. I've always known that--it was known by Dante, who all hislife possessed the soul of Beatrice; and Beethoven, who was united fromafar with Therese von Brunswick, knew it, though she was the wife ofanother!

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 promiseall 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'sanother thing to get a home together. .. . 

CONFESSOR. You're sometimes lucky, even if you won't see it. There'sa small house down there by the river; it's quite new and the owner'snever even seen it. He was an Englishman who wanted to marry; but atthe last moment _she_ broke off the engagement. It was built by hissecretary, and neither of the engaged couple ever set eyes on it. It'squite 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 theair'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 andwarm lap. .. . 

CONFESSOR. Until you long once more for what's hard as stone, as coldand 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. Onthe dining-table, which is in the middle of the room, stand vases filledwith flowers; also two candelabra with many lighted candles. A largecarved sideboard on the left. On the right, two windows. At theback, two doors; that on the left is open and gives a view of thedrawing-room, belonging to the lady of the house, which is furnished inlight 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 theLADY, dressed as a bride; both radiant with youth and beauty. ]

STRANGER. Welcome to my house, belovčd; 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 byme. 

(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 goodnesstaught 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. Anenchanting thing I've never yet possessed. A home and a wife! You aremy first, my only one; for what once happened exists no longer--no morethan the hour that's past!

LADY. Orpheus! Your song has made these dead stones live. Make life singin me!

STRANGER. Eurydice, whom I rescued from the underworld! I'll love you tolife again; revivify you with my imagination. Now happiness will come tous, for we know the dangers to avoid. 

LADY. The dangers, yes! It's lovely in this house. It seems as if theserooms were full of invisible guests, who've come to welcome us. Kindspirits, who'll bless us and our home. 

STRANGER. The candle flames are still, as if in prayer. The flowers arepensive. .. . And yet!

LADY. Hush! The summer night's outside, warm and dark. And stars hangin 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 ithas 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 totake 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 hascome; and blessed may you be amongst women. 

(The candles and lamps go out; it grows dark in the dining-room; but aweak ray of light can be seen, coming from the brass standard lamp inthe 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 meover stones and thorns. That little, soft, dear hand! Lead me into thelight, 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 findssanctuary, when heaven's thunder clouds grow black, for the dove has nofear. She has not provoked the thunders of heaven!

(They have reached the doorway leading to the other room, when thecurtain falls. )

***

[The same room; but the table has been cleared. The LADY is sitting atit, doing nothing. She seems bored. On the right, down stage, a windowis open. It is still. The STRANGER comes in, with a piece of paper inhis 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 towrite this little poem. (Silence. ) Perhaps it'll bore you to hear it?

LADY (drily). No. Certainly not. (The STRANGER sits down at the tableand 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 ismostly worthless. (Pause. ) May I read them? No, I see I mayn't. You wantnothing more from me. (The LADY makes a gesture as if she were going tospeak. ) Your face tells me enough. Now you've sucked me dry, eatenme hollow, killed my ego, my personality. To that I answer: how, mybeloved? Have _I_ killed your ego, when I wanted to give you the wholeof mine; when I let you skim the cream off my bowl, that I'd filled withall the experience of along life, with incursions into the deserts andgroves 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. WhatI've read becomes mine, because I've broken it in two like glass, meltedit 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 youfeel it--you wish me far away. 

STRANGER. I must be a certain distance from you, if I'm to see you. Nowyou'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 meetagain, we long to part. 

LADY. Do you really think we love each other?

STRANGER. Yes. Not like ordinary people, but unusual ones. We resembletwo drops of water, that fear to get close together, in case they shouldcease to be two and become one. 

LADY. This time we knew the dangers and wanted to avoid them. But itseems that they can't be avoided. 

STRANGER. Perhaps they weren't dangers, but rude necessities; lawsinscribed in the councils of the immortals. (Silence. ) Your love alwaysseemed to have the effect of hate. When you made me happy, you enviedthe happiness you'd given me. And when you saw I was unhappy, you lovedme. 

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 higherlife; our love, that doesn't seem to be of this world. Let's live it outin another planet, where there's no nearness and no distance, where twoare one; where number, time and space are no longer what they are inthis. 

LADY. I'd like to die, yet I don't want to. I think I must be deadalready. 

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 angrywith 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'rebound together. We hate the bond, we hate our love; we hate what is mostloveable, what is the bitterest, the best this life can offer. We'vecome to an end!

LADY. Yes. 

STRANGER. What a joke life is, if you take it seriously. And howserious, if you take it as a joke! You wanted to lead me by the handtowards the light; your easier fate was to make mine easier too. Iwanted to raise you above the bogs and quicksands; but you longed forthe lower regions, and wanted to convince me they were the upper ones. Iask myself if it's possible that you took what was wicked from me, whenI was freed from it; and that what was good in you entered into me? IfI'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 thedarkness. .. 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 thetable. The TEMPTER puts his head in at the window, and rests himself onhis 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 mostprecarious of all that's insecure. 

STRANGER. So you're here?

TEMPTER. I'm always everywhere, where it smells of quarrels. And in loveaffairs 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 beenquarrelling. The whole love affair had been one long shindy, withmany little ones in between! And yet they loved one another, and weregrateful 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 andpinpricks. 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 yourmadonna go her way? No answer; because he doesn't know! Now we'll haveto let the hotel again. Here's a board. I'll hang it out at once. 'ToLet. ' 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--chieflybecause--well, you know, a man marries to get a home, to get into ahome; and a woman to get out of one. She wanted to get out, and I wantedto get in! I was so made that I couldn't take her into company, becauseI felt as if she were soiled by men's glances. And in company, mysplendid, wonderful wife turned into a little grimacing monkey Icouldn't bear the sight of. So I stayed at home; and then, she stayedaway. And when I met her again, she'd changed into someone else. She, my pure white notepaper, was scribbled all over; her clear and lovelyfeatures changed in imitation of the satyr-like looks of strange men. I could see miniature photographs of bull-fighters and guardsmen in hereyes, and hear the strange accents of strange men in her voice. On ourgrand piano, on which only the harmonies of the great masters used to beheard, she now played the cabaret songs of strange men; and on our tablethere lay nothing but the favourite reading of strange men. In aword, my whole existence was on the way to becoming an intellectualconcubinage with strange men--and that was contrary to my nature, whichhas always longed for women! And--I need hardly say this--the tastes ofthese strange men were always the reverse of mine. She developed a realgenius for discovering things I detested! That's what she called 'savingher 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 loveher. But I loved her so much I didn't want to speak to any other humanbeing; because I feared to be untrue to her if I found pleasure inthe company of others, even if they were men. I'd married for femininesociety; and in order to enjoy it I'd left my friends. I'd married inorder to find company, but what I got was complete solitude! And I wassupporting house and home, in order to provide strange men with femininecompanionship. _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 youspeak ill, all their sympathy will go out to her; and if, in the firstinstance, you ask why they laugh, you get no answer. 

STRANGER. No. You can never find out who you've married. Never get holdof 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 whosetrance-like life a man one day will be created. She seems a child, butisn'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 alot of sympathy for what he dislikes; is crudest beneath the greatestsuperficial refinement; the wickedest amongst the best. And yet, whenever I've been in love, I've always grown more sensitive to therefinements of civilisation. 

TEMPTER. You, I dare say. What about her?

STRANGER. Oh, whilst our love was growing _she_ was always developingbackwards. And getting cruder and more wicked. 

TEMPTER. Can you explain that?

STRANGER. No. But once, when I was trying to find the solution to theriddle by disagreeing with myself, I took it that she absorbed my eviland I her good. 

TEMPTER. Do you think woman's particularly false?

STRANGER. Yes and no. She seeks to hide her weakness but that only meansthat 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 drankI looked uglier than usual; so she begged me not to. I remember onenight we'd been talking in a café for many hours. When it was nearly teno'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 onlyto go to a large party, where she drank till morning. Well, I said, asin those days I looked for all that was good in women, she meant well byme, but had to pollute herself for business reasons. 

TEMPTER. That's well thought out; and, as a view, can be defended. Shewanted to make you better than herself, higher and purer, so that shecould look up to you! But you can find an equally good explanation forthat. A wife's always angry and out of humour with her husband; and thehusband's always kind and grateful to his wife. He does all he can tomake 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 tome. For instance, she was very much in love with herself, and thereforecalled me the most egoistical of men. She drank, and called me adrunkard; she rarely changed her linen and said I was dirty; shewas jealous, even of my men friends, and called me Othello. She wasmasterful 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 shereally was, I'd have lost her favour that moment--and it was preciselyher favour I wanted to keep. 

TEMPTER. _A tout prix_! Yes, that's the source of degradation! You growaccustomed to holding your tongue, and at last find yourself caught in atissue of falsehoods. 

STRANGER. Wait! Don't you agree that married people so mix theirpersonalities that they can no longer distinguish between meum and tuum, no longer remain separate from one another, or cannot tell their ownweaknesses from those of the other. My jealous friend, who called meOthello, 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'sto blame. For when married people begin to differ, it's like a realmdivided 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 passivenoun. He loves and she is loved; he asks questions and she merelyanswers. 

TEMPTER. Then what is woman's love?

STRANGER. The man's. 

TEMPTER. Well said. And therefore when the man ceases to love her, shesevers 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 turnedand 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 firstlove!

TEMPTER. It seems she's left her second husband recently. .. And arrivedhere with number three; who, if one can judge by certain movements ofhis back and calves, is escaping from a stormy scene. Oh, well! But shedidn't notice his spiteful intentions. Very interesting! I'll go out andlisten. 

(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 flowerspensive. .. . 

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; youwanted 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. ) Didhe 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 wentmyself. 

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 toknow one another's thoughts. 

STRANGER. We made a mistake when we were living together, because weaccused each other of wicked thoughts before they'd become actions; andlived in mental reservations instead of realities. For instance, Ionce noticed how you enjoyed the defiling gaze of a strange man, and Iaccused you of unfaithfulness. 

WOMAN. You were wrong to do so, and right. Because my thoughts weresinful. 

STRANGER. Don't you think my habit of 'anticipating you' prevented yourbad designs from being put in practice?

WOMAN. Let me think! Yes, perhaps it did. But I was annoyed to find aspy 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 rightto force your way in. When you did so I hated you; I said you wereabnormally suspicious out of self-defence. Now I can admit that yoursuspicions 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 asfriends and gone to sleep, I used to wake and feel your hatred poisoningme; and think of getting out of bed so as not to be suffocated. Onenight I woke and felt a pressure on the top of my head. I saw you wereawake and had put your hand close to my mouth. I thought you were makingme 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 alwaysridiculous. 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 yourespond to his love?

WOMAN. We don't! We submit to it, and search for another man who doesn'tlove us. 

STRANGER. But if he, in turn, begins to love you, do you look for athird?

WOMAN. Perhaps it's like that. 

STRANGER. Very strange. (There is a silence. ) I remember you were alwaysdreaming 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 youonly began to detest me for it. That means that the husband mayn't dowhat the lover may. Later you had a passion for page boys. One of themused to sit on the Brussels carpet and read you bad verses. .. . My goodones 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 rhythmsand 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 itand falls into a chair. ) A farewell note! Oh, well! All beginningsare hard--in love affairs. And those who lack the patience to surmountinitial 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 bea 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 ofyou, 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 toseed in marriage and then sinks to the earth to wither and die. 

WOMAN. The loveliest flowers have no seed. The rose is the flower oflove. 

STRANGER. And the lily that of innocence. That can form seeds, but onlyopens her white cup to kisses. 

TEMPTER. And propagates her kind with buds, out of which fresh liliesspring, like chaste Minerva who sprang fully armed from the head ofZeus, and not from his royal loins. Oh yes, children, I've understoodmuch, but never this: what the beloved of my soul has to do with. .. . (Hehesitates. )

STRANGER. Well, go on!

TEMPTER. What all-powerful love, that is the marriage of souls, has todo 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 anunborn word, a soundless speech, a quiet language of the soul, can beexchanged, by means of a hallowed procedure, for a surgical operation, that always ends in tears and the chattering of teeth. I've neverunderstood how that holy night, the first in which two souls embraceeach 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 thoubring 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 WOMANrises. ) 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 cloistersand the courtyard of the monastery. In the middle of the courtyard thereis a well with a statue of the Virgin Mary, surrounded by long-stemmedwhite roses. The walls of the chapter house are filled with built-inchoir stalls of oak. The PRIOR'S own stall is in the middle to the rightand rather higher than the rest. In the middle of the chapter house anenormous crucifix. The sun is shining on the statue of the Virgin inthe courtyard. The STRANGER enters from the back. He is wearing a coarsemonkish cowl, with a rope round his waist and sandals on his feet. Hehalts in the doorway and looks at the chapter house, then goes over tothe crucifix and stops in front of it. The last strophe of the choralservice can be heard from across the courtyard. The CONFESSOR entersfrom the back; he is dressed in black and white; he has long hair andalong 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! Didyou sleep well last night?

STRANGER. Dreamlessly, like a tired child. But tell me: why do I find somany 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 hascontinually grown through pious benefactions. Untouched by the spiritualupheavals and changes of different epochs, it stands on its rocky heightas a monument of Western culture. That is to say: Christian faith weddedto 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'sa library, museum, observatory and laboratory--as you'll see later. Agriculture and horticulture are also studied here; and a hospital forlaymen, with its own sulphur springs, is attached to the monastery. 

STRANGER. One word more, before the chapter assembles. What kind of manis the Prior?

CONFESSOR (smiling). He is the Prior! Aloof, without peer, dwelling onthe 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 ofthe 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. Oncehe was a minister, but that was seventy years ago. Twice curator of theuniversity. Archbishop. .. . 'Sh! Mass is over. 

STRANGER. I presume he's not the kind of unprejudiced priest whopretends to have vices when he has none?

CONFESSOR. Not at all. But he's seen life and mankind, and he's morehuman 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 sufferedshipwreck, started again, gone to pieces and risen once more. You mustwait. 

STRANGER. The Prior's sure to ask me questions. I don't think I canagree to everything. 

CONFESSOR. On the contrary, you must show yourself as you are; anddefend your opinions to the last. 

STRANGER. Will contradiction be permitted here?

CONFESSOR. Here? You're a child, who's lived in a childish world, whereyou've played with thoughts and words. You've lived in the erroneousbelief that language, a material thing, can be a vehicle for anythingso subtle as thoughts and feelings. We've discovered that error, andtherefore speak as little as possible; for we are aware of, and candivine, the innermost thoughts of our neighbour. We've so developedour perceptive faculties by spiritual exercises that we are linked ina single chain; and can detect a feeling of pleasure and harmony, when there's complete accord. The Prior, who has trained himself mostrigorously, can feel if anyone's thoughts have strayed into wrong paths. In some respects he's like--merely like, I say--a telephone engineer'sgalvanometer, that shows when and where a current has been interrupted. Therefore we can have no secrets from one another, and so do not needthe confessional. Think of all this when you confront the searching eyeof the Prior!

STRANGER. Is there any intention of examining me?

CONFESSOR. Oh no. There are merely a few questions to answer without anydeep meaning, before the practical examinations. Quiet! Here they are. 

(He goes to one side. The PRIOR enters from the back. He is dressedentirely in white and he has pulled up his hood. He is a tall man withlong 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 followedby twelve Fathers, dressed in black and white, with black hoods, alsopulled up. All bow to the crucifix and then go to their places. )

PRIOR (after looking at the STRANGER for a moment. ) What do you seekhere? (The STRANGER is confused and tries to find an answer, but cannot. The PRIOR goes on, calmly, firmly, but indulgently. ) Peace? Isn't thatso? (The STRANGER makes a sign of assent with head and mouth. ) But ifthe whole of life is a struggle, how can you find peace amongst theliving? (The STRANGER is not able to answer. ) Do you want to turn yourback 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 injusticebegan so early that you, an innocent child, couldn't imagine you'dcommitted any crime that was worthy of punishment. Well, once you wereunjustly accused of stealing fruit; tormented into taking the offenceon yourself; tortured into telling lies about yourself and forced to begforgiveness 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. Nowlisten, you've a good memory; can you remember _The Swiss FamilyRobinson_?

STRANGER (shrinking). _The Swiss Family Robinson_?

PRIOR. Yes. Those events that caused you such mental torture happened in1857, but at Christmas 1856, that is the year before, you tore a copyof that book and out of fear of punishment hid it under a chest in thekitchen. (The STRANGER is taken aback. ) The wardrobe was painted in oakgraining, 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 springcleaning at Easter what was hidden was brought to light. Fear drove youto put the blame on a schoolfellow. And now he had to endure torture, because appearances were against him, for you were thought to betrustworthy. After this the history of your sorrows comes as a logicalsequence. You accept this logic?

STRANGER. Yes. Punish me!

PRIOR. No. I don't punish; when I was a child I did--similar things. Butwill you now promise to forget this history of your own sufferings forall time and never to recount it again?

STRANGER. I promise! If only he whom I took advantage of could forgiveme. 

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. Buteven in 1854 one of my brothers suffered in the same way, owing to afalse accusation on my part. (To the STRANGER. ) So we're all guilty andnot one of us is without blemish; and I believe my victim had no clearconscience either. (He sits down. )

PRIOR. If we could only stop accusing one another and particularlyEternal Justice! But we're born in guilt and all resemble Adam! (To theSTRANGER. ) 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'spermitted to know. Pater Uriel! (PATER URIEL, who is blind, rises. ThePRIOR speaks to the STRANGER. ) Look at this blind father! We call himUriel in remembrance of Uriel Acosta, whom perhaps you've heard of? (TheSTRANGER makes a sign that he has not. ) You haven't? All young peopleshould have heard of him. Uriel Acosta was a Portuguese of Jewishdescent, who, however, was brought up in the Christian faith. When hewas still fairly young he began to inquire--you understand--to inquireif Christ were really God; with the result that he went over to theJewish faith. And then he began research into the Mosaic writings andthe immortality of the soul, with the result that the Rabbis handed himover to the Christian priesthood for punishment. A long time afterhe returned to the Jewish faith. But his thirst for knowledge knewno bounds, and he continued his researches till he found he'd reachedabsolute nullity; and in despair that he couldn't learn the final secrethe took his own life with a pistol shot. (Pause. ) Now look at our goodfather Uriel here. He, too, was once very young and anxious to know; healways wanted to be in the forefront of every modern movement, and hediscovered new philosophies. I may add, by the way, that he's a friendof my boyhood and almost as old as I. Now about 1820 he came upon theso-called rational philosophy, that had already lain in its grave fortwenty years. With this system of thought, which was supposed to be amaster key, all locks were to be picked, all questions answered and allopponents confuted--everything was clear and simple. In those days Urielwas a strong opponent of all religions and in particular followed theMesmerists, as the hypnotisers of that age were called. In 1830 ourfriend 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 hadbecome a compromise with the Christian view. And so Father Uriel, whonever 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. In1850 he again became a materialist and an enemy of Christianity. In1870 he became a hypnotist, in 1880 a theosophist, and 1890 he wanted toshoot himself! I met him just at that time. He was sitting on a bench inUnter den Linden in Berlin, and he was blind. This Uriel was blind--andUriel means 'God is my Light'--who for a century had marched with thetorch of liberalism at the head of _every_ modern movement! (To theSTRANGER. ) You see, he wanted to know, but he failed! And therefore henow 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 wouldhave called him conservative or old-fashioned; but now, as he's followedthe developments of his time and has therefore discarded his youthfulfaith, men will call him a renegade--that's to say: whatever he doesmankind will blame him. 

PRIOR. Do you heed what men say? Father Clemens, may I tell him howyou heeded what men said? (PATER CLEMENS rises and makes a gesture ofassent. ) Father Clemens is our greatest figure painter. In the worldoutside he's known by another name, a very famous one. Father Clemenswas a young man in 1830. He felt he had a talent for painting andgave himself up to it with his whole soul. When he was twenty he wasexhibiting. The public, the critics, his teachers, and his parentswere all of the opinion that he'd made a mistake in the choice of hisprofession. Young Clemens heeded what men were saying, so he laid downhis brush and turned bookseller. When he was fifty years of age, and hadhis life behind him, the paintings of his early years were discovered bysome stranger; and were then recognised as masterpieces by the public, the critics, his teachers and relations! But it was too late. And whenFather Clemens complained of the wickedness of the world, the worldanswered with a heartless grin: 'Why did you let yourself be takenin?' Father Clemens grieved so much at this, that he came to us. But hedoesn'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 donein 1830 were admired and hung in a museum till 1880. Taste then changedvery quickly, and one day an important newspaper announced that theirpresence 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 againthat a professor of the History of Art wrote that it was a nationalscandal that my works should be hanging in an attic. So the pictureswere brought down again, and, for the time being, are classical. Butfor how long? From that you can see, young man, in what worldly fameconsists? Vanitas vanitatum vanitas!

STRANGER. Then is life worth living?

PRIOR. Ask Pater Melcher, who is experienced not only in the world ofdeception and error, but also in that of lies and contradictions. Followhim: 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 theChapter House. )

Curtain. 

SCENE II

PICTURE GALLERY OF THE MONASTERY

[Picture Gallery of the Monastery. There are mostly portraits of peoplewith two heads. ]

MELCHER. Well, first we have here a small landscape, by an unknownmaster, called 'The Two Towers. ' Perhaps you've been in Switzerland andknow the originals. 

STRANGER. I've been in Switzerland!

MELCHER. Exactly. Then near the station of Amsteg on the Gotthardrailway you've seen a tower, called Zwing-Uri, sung of by Schillerin his _Wilhelm Tell_. It stands there as a monument to the crueloppression which the inhabitants of Uri suffered at the hands ofthe German Emperors. Good! On the Italian side of the Gotthard liesBellinzona, as you know. There are many towers to be seen there, but themost curious is called Castel d'Uri. That's the monument recalling thecruel oppression which the Italian cantons suffered at the hands of theinhabitants 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 portraitcollection. Number one in the catalogue. Boccaccio, with two heads--allour portraits have at least two heads. His story's well known. The greatman began his career by writing dissolute and godless tales, whichhe 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 lecturedon Dante's Hell and the devils that, in his youth, he had thought todrive out in a most original way. You'll notice now, how the two facesare meeting each other's gaze!

STRANGER. Yes. But all trace of humour's lacking; and humour's to beexpected 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 DoctorLuther. The youthful champion of tolerance and the aged upholder ofintolerance. Have I said enough?

STRANGER. Quite enough. 

MELCHER. Number three in the catalogue. The great Gustavus Adolphusaccepting Catholic funds from Cardinal Richelieu in order to fight forProtestantism, whilst remaining neutral in the face of the CatholicLeague. 

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 ofParis by the leaders of the French Revolution in 1792; but who had beenmade a State Councillor of Meiningen as early as 1790 and a royal DanishStipendiary in 1791. The scene depicts the State Councillor--and friendof his Excellency Goethe--receiving the Diploma of Honour from theleaders of the French Revolution as late as 1798. Think of it, thediploma of the Reign of Terror in the year 1798, when the Revolution wasover and the country under the Directory! I'd have liked to have seenthe Councillor and his friend, His Excellency! But it didn't matter, for two years later he repaid his nomination by writing the _Song of theBell_, in which he expressed his thanks and begged the revolutionariesto keep quiet! Well, that's life. We're intelligent people and love _TheRobbers_ 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 withStrassburg cathedral and _Götz von Berlichingen_, two hurrahs for gothicGermanic art against that of Greece and Rome. Later he fought againstGermanism and for Classicism. Goethe against Goethe! There you see thetraditional Olympic calm, harmony, etc. , in the greatest disharmonywith itself. But depression at this turns into uneasiness when theyoung Romantic school appears and combats the Goethe of _Iphigenia_ withtheories drawn from Goethe's _Goetz_. That the 'great heathen' ends upby converting Faust in the Second Part, and allowing him to be saved bythe Virgin Mary and the angels, is usually passed over in silence by hisadmirers. Also the fact that a man of such clear vision should, towardsthe end of his life, have found everything so 'strange, ' and 'curious, 'even the simplest facts that he'd previously seen through. His lastwish was for 'more light'! Yes; but it doesn't matter. We're intelligentpeople and love our Goethe just the same. 

STRANGER. And rightly. 

MELCHER. Number six in the catalogue. Voltaire! He has more than twoheads. The Godless One, who spent his whole life defending God. TheMocker, who was mocked, because 'he believed in God like a child. ' Theauthor 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 andEarth by means of reason and science, sings like this, when he comes tothe 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 usehim against the Christians, and the Christians use him against the Jews, because he was an anti-Semite, like Luther. Chateaubriand used himto defend Catholicism, and Protestants use him even to-day to attackCatholicism. 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 thePeople, the Nero of Freedom, the suppressor of Equality and the 'bigbrother' of Fraternity. He's the most cunning of all the two-headed, forhe could laugh at himself, raise himself above his own contradictions, change his skin and his soul, and yet be quite explicable to himself inevery transformation--convinced, self-authorised. There's only one otherman who can be compared with him in this; Kierkegaard the Dane. Fromthe beginning he was aware of this parthenogenesis of the soul, whosecapacity to multiply by taking cuttings was equivalent to bringing forthyoung in this life without conception. And for that reason, and so asnot to become life's fool, he wrote under a number of pseudonyms, ofwhich each one constituted a 'stage on his life's way. ' But did yourealise this? The Lord of life, in spite of all these precautions, madea fool of him after all. Kierkegaard, who fought all his life againstthe priesthood and the professional preachers of the State Church, was eventually forced of necessity to become a professional preacherhimself! 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 intocountless parts. He was a peer of France, a Grandee of Spain, a friendof Kings, and the socialist author of _Les Misérables_. The peersnaturally called him a renegade, and the socialists a reformer. Numbernine. Count Friedrich Leopold von Stollberg. He wrote a fanatical bookfor the Protestants, and then suddenly became a Catholic! Inexplicablein 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 suspectedreactionary, because he wanted to help Louis XVI; and then was capturedby the Austrians and carried off to Olmütz as a revolutionary! What washe in reality?

STRANGER. Both!

MELCHER. Yes, both. He had the two halves that made a whole--a wholeman. Number eleven. Bismarck. A paradox. The honest diplomat, whomaintained he'd discovered that to tell the truth was the greatest ofruses. And so was compelled--by the Powers, I suppose?--to spend thelast six years of his life unmasking himself as a conscious liar. You'retired. Then we'll stop now. 

STRANGER. Yes, if one clings to the same ideas all one's life, and holdsthe same opinions, one grows old according to nature's laws, and getscalled conservative, old-fashioned, out of date. But if one goes ondeveloping, keeping pace with one's own age, renewing oneself with theperennially youthful impulses of contemporary thought, one's called awaverer and a renegade. 

MELCHER. That's as old as the world! But does an intelligent, man heedwhat he's called? One is, what one's becoming. 

STRANGER. But who revises the periodically changing views ofcontemporary opinion?

MELCHER. You ought to answer that yourself, and indeed in this way. Itis the Powers themselves who promulgate contemporary opinion, as theydevelop in _apparent_ circles. Hegel, the philosopher of the present, himself dimorphous, for both a 'left'-minded and a 'right'-minded Hegelcan 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! Youngman, or rather, comparatively young man! You began life by acceptingeverything, then went on to denying everything on principle. Now endyour life by comprehending everything. Be exclusive no longer. Donot say: either--or, but: not only--but also! In a word, or two wordsrather, Humanity and Resignation!

Curtain. 

SCENE III

CHAPEL OF THE MONASTERY

[Choir of the Monastery Chapel. An open coffin with a bier cloth and twoburning candles. The CONFESSOR leads in the STRANGER by the hand. TheSTRANGER 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 Fathersand 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 inyour coffin and appear to die; the old Adam will be covered with threeshovelfuls of earth, and a De Profundis will be sung. Then you'll riseagain from the dead, having laid aside your old name, and be baptizedonce more like a new-born child! What will you be called? (The STRANGERdoes not reply. ) It is written: Johannes, brother Johannes, because hepreached 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, likedrinking. 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 onlyto 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 orderto 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 crossthe stage. ) And there--what's loveliest, and most bitter. Adam and Evein Paradise, that in a week will be a Hell, and in a fortnight Paradiseagain. 

STRANGER. What is loveliest, brightest! The first, the only, the lastthat ever gave life meaning! I, too, once sat in the sunlight on averandah, in the spring beneath the first tree to show new green, and asmall crown crowned a head, and a white veil lay like thin morning mistover 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 throwshadows; 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 himeternal peace!

CHOIR. May he be illumined with perpetual light!

CONFESSOR (wrapping the STRANGER to the bier-cloth). May he rest inpeace!

CHOIR. Amen!

Curtain.