PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Springs up._] Irene—what is it!
IRENE.
[_Motioning him off._] Keep still, still, still! [_Draws a deep breath
and says, as though relieved of a burden._] There! Now they let me go.
For this time.—Now we can sit down and talk as we used to—when I was
alive.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Oh, if only we could talk as we used to.
IRENE.
Sit there, where you were sitting. I will sit here beside you.
[_He sits down again. She seats herself on another stone, close to
him._
IRENE.
[_After a short interval of silence._] Now I have come back to you from
the uttermost regions, Arnold.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Aye, truly, from an endless journey.
IRENE.
Come home to my lord and master——
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
To our home;—to our own home, Irene.
IRENE.
Have you looked for my coming every single day?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
How dared I look for you?
IRENE.
[_With a sidelong glance._] No, I suppose you dared not. For you
understood nothing.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Was it really not for the sake of some one else that you all of a sudden
disappeared from me in that way?
IRENE.
Might it not quite well be for _your_ sake, Arnold?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Looks doubtfully at her._] I don’t understand you——?
IRENE.
When I had served you with my soul and with my body—when the statue
stood there finished—our child as you called it—then I laid at your feet
the most precious sacrifice of all—by effacing myself for all time.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Bows his head._] And laying my life waste.
IRENE.
[_Suddenly firing up._] It was just _that_ I wanted! Never, never should
you create anything again—after you had created that only child of ours.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Was it jealousy that moved you, then?
IRENE.
[_Coldly._] I think it was rather hatred.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Hatred? Hatred for me?
IRENE.
[_Again vehemently._] Yes, for you—for the artist who had so lightly and
carelessly taken a warm-blooded body, a young human life, and worn the
soul out of it—because you needed it for a work of art.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
And you can say that—you who threw yourself into my work with such
saint-like passion and such ardent joy?—that work for which we two met
together every morning, as for an act of worship.
IRENE.
[_Coldly, as before._] I will tell you one thing, Arnold.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Well?
IRENE.
I never loved your art, before I met you.—Nor after either.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
But the artist, Irene?
IRENE.
The artist I hate.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
The artist in _me_ too?
IRENE.
In you most of all. When I unclothed myself and stood for you, then I
hated you, Arnold——
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Warmly._] That you did not, Irene! That is not true!
IRENE.
I hated you, because you could stand there so unmoved——
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Laughs._] Unmoved? Do you think so?
IRENE.
—at any rate so intolerably self-controlled. And because you were an
artist and an artist only—not a man! [_Changing to a tone full of warmth
and feeling._] But that statue in the wet, living clay, _that_ I
loved—as it rose up, a vital human creature, out of those raw, shapeless
masses—for _that_ was our creation, _our_ child. Mine and yours.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Sadly._] It was so in spirit and in truth.
IRENE.
Let me tell you, Arnold—it is for the sake of this child of ours that I
have undertaken this long pilgrimage.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Suddenly alert._] For the statue’s——?
IRENE.
Call it what you will. I call it our child.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
And now you want to see it? Finished? In marble, which you always
thought so cold? [_Eagerly._] You do not know, perhaps, that it is
installed in a great museum somewhere—far out in the world?
IRENE.
I have heard a sort of legend about it.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
And museums were always a horror to you. You called them grave-vaults——
IRENE.
I will make a pilgrimage to the place where my soul and my child’s soul
lie buried.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Uneasy and alarmed._] You must never see that statue again! Do you
hear, Irene! I implore you—! Never, never see it again!
IRENE.
Perhaps you think it would mean death to me a second time?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Clenching his hands together._] Oh, I don’t know what I think.—But how
could I ever imagine that you would fix your mind so immovably on that
statue? You, who went away from me—before it was completed.
IRENE.
It _was_ completed. That was why I could go away from you—and leave you
alone.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Sits with his elbows upon his knees rocking his head from side to
side, with his hands before his eyes._] It was not what it afterwards
became.
IRENE.
[_Quietly but quick as lightning, half-unsheathes a narrow-bladed sharp
knife which she carries in her breast, and asks in a hoarse whisper._]
Arnold—have you done any evil to our child?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Evasively._] Any evil?—How can I be sure what _you_ would call it?
IRENE.
[_Breathless._] Tell me at once: what have you done to the child?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
I will tell you if you will sit and listen quietly to what I say.
IRENE.
[_Hides the knife._] I will listen as quietly as a mother can when she——
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Interrupting._] And you must not look at me while I am telling you.
IRENE.
[_Moves to a stone behind his back._] I will sit here, behind you.—Now
tell me.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Takes his hands from before his eyes and gazes straight in front of
him._] When I had found you, I knew at once how I should make use of you
for my life-work.
IRENE.
“The Resurrection Day” you called your life-work.—I call it “our child.”
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
I was young then—with no experience of life. The Resurrection, I
thought, would be most beautifully and exquisitely figured as a young
unsullied woman—with none of a life’s experiences—awakening to light and
glory without having to put away from her anything ugly and impure.
IRENE.
[_Quickly._] Yes—and so I stand there now, in our work?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Hesitating._] Not absolutely and entirely so, Irene.
IRENE.
[_In rising excitement._] Not absolutely—? Do I not stand as I always
stood for you?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Without answering._] I learned worldly wisdom in the years that
followed, Irene. “The Resurrection Day” became in my mind’s eye
something more and something—something more complex. The little round
plinth on which your figure stood erect and solitary—it no longer
afforded room for all the imagery I now wanted to add——
IRENE.
[_Gropes for her knife, but desists._] What imagery did you add then?
Tell me!
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
I imaged that which I saw with my eyes around me in the world. I had to
include it—I could not help it, Irene. I expanded the plinth—made it
wide and spacious. And on it I placed a segment of the curving, bursting
earth. And up from the fissures of the soil there now swarm men and
women with dimly-suggested animal-faces. Women and men—as I knew them in
real life.
IRENE.
[_In breathless suspense._] But in the middle of the rout there stands
the young woman radiant with the joy of light?—Do I not stand so,
Arnold?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Evasively._] Not quite in the middle. I had unfortunately to move that
figure a little back. For the sake of the general effect, you
understand. Otherwise it would have dominated the whole too much.
IRENE.
But the joy in the light still transfigures my face?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Yes, it does, Irene—in a way. A little subdued perhaps—as my altered
idea required.
IRENE.
[_Rising noiselessly._] That design expresses the life you now see,
Arnold.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Yes, I suppose it does.
IRENE.
And in that design you have shifted me back, a little toned down—to
serve as a background-figure—in a group.
[_She draws the knife._
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Not a background-figure. Let us say, at most, a figure not quite in the
foreground—or something of that sort.
IRENE.
[_Whispers hoarsely._] There you uttered your own doom.
[_On the point of striking._
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Turns and looks up at her._] Doom?
IRENE.
[_Hastily hides the knife, and says as though choked with agony._] My
whole soul—you and I—we, we, we and our child were in that solitary
figure.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Eagerly, taking off his hat and drying the drops of sweat upon his
brow._] Yes, but let me tell you, too, how I have placed _myself_ in the
group. In front, beside a fountain—as it were here—sits a man weighed
down with guilt, who cannot quite free himself from the earth-crust. I
call him remorse for a forfeited life. He sits there and dips his
fingers in the purling stream—to wash them clean—and he is gnawed and
tortured by the thought that never, never will he succeed. Never in all
eternity will he attain to freedom and the new life. He will remain for
ever prisoned in his hell.
IRENE.
[_Hardly and coldly._] Poet!
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Why poet?
IRENE.
Because you are nerveless and sluggish and full of forgiveness for all
the sins of your life, in thought and in act. You have killed my soul—so
you model yourself in remorse, and self-accusation, and
penance—[_Smiling._]—and with that you think your account is cleared.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Defiantly._] I am an artist, Irene. And I take no shame to myself for
the frailties that perhaps cling to me. For I was _born_ to be an
artist, you see. And, do what I may, I shall never be anything else.
IRENE.
[_Looks at him with a lurking evil smile, and says gently and softly._]
You are a poet, Arnold. [Softly strokes his hair.] You dear, great,
middle-aged child,—is it possible that you cannot see _that_!
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Annoyed._] Why do you keep on calling me a poet?
IRENE.
[_With malign eyes._] Because there is something apologetic in the word,
my friend. Something that suggests forgiveness of sins—and spreads a
cloak over all frailty. [_With a sudden change of tone._] But _I_ was a
human being—then! And I, too, had a life to live,—and a human destiny to
fulfil. And all that, look you, I let slip—gave it all up in order to
make myself your bondwoman.—Oh, it was self-murder—a deadly sin against
myself! [_Half whispering._] And that sin I can never expiate!
[_She seats herself near him beside the brook, keeps close, though
unnoticed, watch upon him, and, as though in absence of mind,
plucks some flowers from the shrubs around them._
IRENE.
[_With apparent self-control._] I should have borne children into the
world—many children—real children—not such children as are hidden away
in grave-vaults. That was my vocation. I ought never to have served
you—poet.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Lost in recollection._] Yet those were beautiful days, Irene.
Marvellously beautiful days—as I now look back upon them——
IRENE.
[_Looking at him with a soft expression._] Can you remember a little
word that you said—when you had finished—finished with me and with our
child? [_Nods to him._] Can you remember that little word, Arnold?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Looks inquiringly at her._] Did I say a little word then, which you
still remember?
IRENE.
Yes, you did. Can you not recall it?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Shaking his head._] No, I can’t say that I do. Not at the present
moment, at any rate.
IRENE.
You took both my hands and pressed them warmly. And I stood there in
breathless expectation. And then you said: “So now, Irene, I thank you
from my heart. This,” you said, “has been a priceless episode for me.”
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Looks doubtfully at her._] Did I say "episode"? It is not a word I am
in the habit of using.
IRENE.
You said “episode.”
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_With assumed cheerfulness._] Well, well—after all, it was in reality
an episode.
IRENE.
[_Curtly._] At _that_ word I left you.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
You take everything so painfully to heart, Irene.
IRENE.
[_Drawing her hand over her forehead._] Perhaps you are right. Let us
shake off all the hard things that go to the heart. [_Plucks off the
leaves of a mountain rose and strews them on the brook._] Look there,
Arnold. There are our birds swimming.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
What birds are they?
IRENE.
Can you not see? Of course they are flamingoes. Are they not rose-red?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Flamingoes do not swim. They only wade.
IRENE.
Then they are not flamingoes. They are sea-gulls.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
They may be sea-gulls with red bills, yes. [_Plucks broad green leaves
and throws them into the brook._] Now I send out my ships after them.
IRENE.
But there must be no harpoon-men on board.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
No, there shall be no harpoon-men. [_Smiles to her._] Can you remember
the summer when we used to sit like this outside the little peasant hut
on the Lake of Taunitz?
IRENE.
[_Nods._] On Saturday evenings, yes,—when we had finished our week’s
work——
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
—And taken the train out to the lake—to stay there over Sunday——
IRENE.
[_With an evil gleam of hatred in her eyes._] It was an episode, Arnold.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_As if not hearing._] Then, too, you used to set birds swimming in the
brook. They were water-lilies which you——
IRENE.
They were white swans.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
I meant swans, yes. And I remember that I fastened a great furry leaf to
one of the swans. It looked like a burdock-leaf——
IRENE.
And then it turned into Lohengrin’s boat—with the swan yoked to it.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
How fond you were of that game, Irene.
IRENE.
We played it over and over again.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Every single Saturday, I believe,—all the summer through.
IRENE.
You said I was the swan that drew your boat.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Did I say so? Yes, I daresay I did. [_Absorbed in the game._] Just see
how the sea-gulls are swimming down the stream!
IRENE.
[_Laughing._] And all your ships have run ashore.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Throwing more leaves into the brook._] I have ships enough in reserve.
[_Follows the leaves with his eyes, throws more into the brook, and says
after a pause._] Irene,—I have bought the little peasant hut beside the
Lake of Taunitz.
IRENE.
Have you bought it? You often said you would, if you could afford it.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
The day came when I could afford it easily enough; and so I bought it.
IRENE.
[_With a sidelong look at him._] Then do you live out there now—in our
old house?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
No, I have had it pulled down long ago. And I have built myself a great,
handsome, comfortable villa on the site—with a park around it. It is
there that we—[_Stops and corrects himself._]—there that I usually live
during the summer.
IRENE.
[_Mastering herself._] So you and—and the other one live out there now?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_With a touch of defiance._] Yes. When my wife and I are not
travelling—as we are this year.
IRENE.
[_Looking far before her._] Life was beautiful, beautiful by the Lake of
Taunitz.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_As though looking back into himself._] And yet, Irene——
IRENE.
[_Completing his thought_]—yet we two let slip all that life and its
beauty.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Softly, urgently._] Does repentance come _too_ late, now?
IRENE.
[_Does not answer, but sits silent for a moment; then she points over
the upland._] Look there, Arnold,—now the sun is going down behind the
peaks. See what a red glow the level rays cast over all the heathery
knolls out yonder.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Looks where she is pointing._] It is long since I have seen a sunset
in the mountains.
IRENE.
Or a sunrise?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
A sunrise I don’t think I have ever seen.
IRENE.
[_Smiles as though lost in recollection._] _I_ once saw a marvellously
lovely sunrise.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Did you? Where was _that_?
IRENE.
High, high up on a dizzy mountain-top.—You beguiled me up there by
promising that I should see all the glory of the world if only I——
[_She stops suddenly._
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
If only you—? Well?
IRENE.
I did as you told me—went with you up to the heights. And there I fell
upon my knees, and worshipped you, and served you. [_Is silent for a
moment; then says softly._] _Then_ I saw the sunrise.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Turning the conversation._] Should you not like to come and live with
us in the villa down there?
IRENE.
[_Looks at him with a scornful smile._] With you—and the other woman?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Urgently._] With _me_—as in our days of creation. You could open all
that is locked up in me. Can you not find it in your heart, Irene?
IRENE.
[_Shaking her head._] I have no longer the key to you, Arnold.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
You _have_ the key! You and you alone possess it! [_Beseechingly._] Help
me—that I may be able to live my life over again!
IRENE.
[_Immovable as before._] Empty dreams! Idle—dead dreams. For the life
you and I led there is no resurrection.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Curtly, breaking off._] Then let us go on playing.
IRENE.
Yes, playing, playing—only playing!
[_They sit and strew leaves and petals over the brook, where they
float and sail away._
[_Up the slope to the left at the back come ULFHEIM and MAIA in
hunting costume. After them comes the SERVANT with the leash of
dogs, with which he goes out to the right._
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Catching sight of them._] Ah! there is little Maia, going out with the
bear-hunter.
IRENE.
Your lady, yes.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Or the other’s.
MAIA.
[_Looks around as she is crossing the upland, sees the two sitting by
the brook, and calls out._] Good-night, Professor! Dream of me. Now I am
going off on my adventures!
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Calls back to her._] What is to be the aim of this adventure?
MAIA.
[_Approaching._] I am going to put life in the place of all the rest.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Mockingly._] Aha! so _you_ too are going to do that, little Maia?
MAIA.
Yes. And I’ve made a verse about it, and this is how it goes:
[_Sings triumphantly_]
I am free! I am free! I am free!
No more life in the prison for me!
I am free as a bird! I am free!
For I believe I have awakened now—at last.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
It almost seems so.
MAIA.
[_Drawing a deep breath._] Oh—how divinely light one feels on waking!
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Good-night, Frau Maia—and good luck to——
ULFHEIM.
[_Calls out, interposing._] Hush, hush!—for the devil’s sake let’s have
none of your wizard wishes. Don’t you see that we are going out to
shoot——
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
What will you bring me home from the hunting, Maia?
MAIA.
You shall have a bird of prey to model. I shall wing one for you.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Laughs mockingly and bitterly._] Yes, to wing things—without knowing
what you are doing—that has long been quite in your way.
MAIA.
[_Tossing her head._] Oh, just let me take care of myself for the
future, and then—! [_Nods and laughs roguishly._] Good-bye—and a good,
peaceful summer night on the upland!
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Jestingly._] Thanks! and all the ill-luck in the world over you and
your hunting!
ULFHEIM.
[_Roaring with laughter._] There now, _that_ is a wish worth having!
MAIA.
[_Laughing._] Thanks, thanks, thanks, Professor!
[_They have both crossed the visible portion of the upland, and go
out through the bushes to the right._
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_After a short pause._] A summer night on the upland! Yes, _that_ would
have been life!
IRENE.
[_Suddenly, with a wild expression in her eyes._] _Will_ you spend a
summer night on the upland—with me?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Stretching his arms wide._] Yes, yes,—come!
IRENE.
My adored lord and master!
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Oh, Irene!
IRENE.
[_Hoarsely, smiling and groping in her breast._] It will be only an
episode—[_Quickly, whispering_.] Hush!—do not look round, Arnold!
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Also in a low voice._] What is it?
IRENE.
A face that is staring at me.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Turns involuntarily._] Where? [_With a start._] Ah——!
[_The SISTER OF MERCY’S head is partly visible among the bushes
beside the descent to the left. Her eyes are immovably fixed on
IRENE._
IRENE.
[_Rises and says softly._] We must part then. No, you must remain
sitting. Do you hear? You must not go with me. [_Bends over him and
whispers._] Till we meet again—to-night—on the upland.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
And you will come, Irene?
IRENE.
Yes, surely I will come. Wait for me here.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Repeats dreamily._] Summer night on the upland. With you. With you.
[_His eyes meet hers._] Oh, Irene—that might have been our life.—And
_that_ we have forfeited—we two.
IRENE.
We see the irretrievable only when—
[_Breaks off._
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Looks inquiringly at her._] When——?
IRENE.
When we dead awaken.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[_Shakes his head mournfully._] What do we really see _then_?
IRENE.
We see that we have never lived.
[_She goes towards the slope and descends._
[_The SISTER OF MERCY makes way for her and follows her. PROFESSOR
RUBEK remains sitting motionless beside the brook._
MAIA.
[_Is heard singing triumphantly among the hills._]
I am free! I am free! I am free!
No more life in the prison for me!
I am free as a bird! I am free!
ACT THIRD
[_A wild riven mountain-side, with sheer precipices at the back.
Snow-clad peaks rise to the right, and lose themselves in drifting
mists. To the left, on a stone-scree, stands an old, half-ruined
hut. It is early morning. Dawn is breaking. The sun has not yet
risen._
[_MAIA comes, flushed and irritated, down over the stone-scree on the
left. ULFHEIM follows, half angry, half laughing, holding her fast
by the sleeve._
MAIA.
[_Trying to tear herself loose._] Let me go! Let me go, I say!
ULFHEIM.
Come, come! are you going to bite now? You’re as snappish as a wolf.
MAIA.
[_Striking him over the hand._] Let me go, I tell you! And be quiet!
ULFHEIM.
No, confound me if I will!
MAIA.
Then I will not go another step with you. Do you hear?—not a single
step!
ULFHEIM.
Ho, ho! How can you get away from me, here, on the wild mountain-side?
MAIA.
I will jump over the precipice yonder, if need be——
ULFHEIM.
And mangle and mash yourself up into dogs’-meat! A juicy morsel! [_Lets
go his hold._] As you please. Jump over the precipice if you want to.
It’s a dizzy drop. There’s only one narrow footpath down it, and that’s
almost impassable.
MAIA.
[_Dusts her skirt with her hand, and looks at him with angry eyes._]
Well, _you_ are a nice one to go hunting with!
ULFHEIM.
Say rather, sporting.
MAIA.
Oh! So you call this sport, do you?
ULFHEIM.
Yes, I venture to take that liberty. It is the sort of sport I like best
of all.
MAIA.
[_Tossing her head._] Well—I must say! [_After a pause; looks
searchingly at him._] Why did you let the dogs loose up there?
ULFHEIM.
[_Blinking his eyes and smiling._] So that _they_ too might do a little
hunting on their own account, don’t you see?
MAIA.
There’s not a word of truth in that! It wasn’t for the dogs’ sake that
you let them go.
ULFHEIM.
[_Still smiling._] Well, why did I let them go then? Let us hear.
MAIA.
You let them go because you wanted to get rid of Lars. He was to run
after them and bring them in again, you said. And in the meantime—. Oh,
it was a pretty way to behave!
ULFHEIM.
In the meantime?
MAIA.
[_Curtly breaking off._] No matter!
ULFHEIM.
[_In a confidential tone._] Lars won’t find them. You may safely swear
to that. He won’t come with them before the time’s up.
MAIA.
[_Looking angrily at him._] No, I daresay not.
ULFHEIM.
[_Catching at her arm._] For Lars—he knows, my—my methods of sport, you
see.
MAIA.
[_Eludes him and measures him with a glance._] Do you know what you look
like, Mr. Ulfheim?
ULFHEIM.
I should think I’m probably most like myself.
MAIA.
Yes, there you’re exactly right. For you’re the living image of a faun.
ULFHEIM.
A faun?
MAIA.
Yes, precisely; a faun.
ULFHEIM.
A faun! Isn’t that a sort of monster? Or a kind of a wood demon, as you
might call it?
MAIA.
Yes, just the sort of creature you are. A thing with a goat’s beard and
goat-legs. Yes, and the faun has horns too!
ULFHEIM.
So, so!—has _he_ horns too?
MAIA.
A pair of ugly horns, just like yours, yes.
ULFHEIM.
Can you see the poor little horns _I_ have?
MAIA.
Yes, I seem to see them quite plainly.
ULFHEIM.
[_Taking the dogs’ leash out of his pocket._] Then I had better see
about tying you.
MAIA.
Have you gone quite mad? Would you tie me?
ULFHEIM.
If I _am_ a demon, let me _be_ a demon! So that’s the way of it! You can
see the horns, can you?
MAIA.
[_Soothingly._] There, there, there! Now try to behave nicely, Mr.
Ulfheim. [_Breaking off._] But what has become of that hunting-castle of
yours, that you boasted so much of? You said it lay somewhere
hereabouts.
ULFHEIM.
[_Points with a flourish to the hut._] There you have it, before your
very eyes.
MAIA.
[_Looks at him._] That old pig-stye!
ULFHEIM.