STRANGER. She could only have changed for the better.

CONFESSOR. Are you sure?

STRANGER. Yes.

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

the right.)

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

CONFESSOR. It can do no harm.

(He beckons once more. A boat appears on the river, rowed by a young

girl. She is wearing summer clothing, her head is bare and her fair hair

is hanging loose. She gets out of the boat behind the willow tree. The

CONFESSOR draws back until he is near the ferryman's hut, but remains

in sight of the audience. The STRANGER has waved to the girl and she has

answered him. She now comes on to the stage, runs into the STRANGER'S

arms, and kisses him.)

DAUGHTER. Father. My dear father!

STRANGER. Sylvia! My child!

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

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

well.

DAUGHTER. Why did you want to hide?

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

And I've gone grey.

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

parted.

STRANGER. When we... parted!

DAUGHTER. When you left us.... (The STRANGER does not reply.) Aren't you

glad we're meeting again?

STRANGER (faintly). Yes!

DAUGHTER. Then show it.

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

DAUGHTER. Why, where do you want to go?

STRANGER (pointing to the monastery). Up there!

DAUGHTER (with a sophisticated air). Into the monastery? Yes, now I come

to think of it, perhaps it's best.

STRANGER. You think so?

DAUGHTER (with pity, but good-will.) I mean, if you've a ruined life

behind you.... (Coaxingly.) Now you look sad. Tell me one thing.

STRANGER. Tell _me_ one thing, my child, that's been worrying me more

than anything else. You've a stepfather?

DAUGHTER. Yes.

STRANGER. Well?

DAUGHTER. He's very good and kind.

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

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

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

DAUGHTER. Because George is carrying my hat.

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

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

bank down below.

STRANGER. Are you engaged to him?

DAUGHTER. No. Certainly not!

STRANGER. Do you want to marry?

DAUGHTER. Never!

STRANGER. I can see it by your mottled cheeks, like those of a child

that has got up too early; I can hear it by your voice, that's no longer

that of a warbler, but a jay; I can feel it in your kisses, that burn

cold like the sun in May; and by your steady icy look that tells me

you're nursing a secret of which you're ashamed, but of which you'd like

to boast. And your brothers and sisters?

DAUGHTER. They're quite well, thank you.

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

DAUGHTER (coldly). Perhaps not.

STRANGER. Now you look so like your mother.

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

was!

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

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

yourself.

STRANGER. Have you anything else to teach me?

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

STRANGER. My day's over and exists no longer; just as Sylvia exists no

longer, but is merely a name, a memory. (He takes a guide-book out of

his pocket.) Look at this guide-book! Can you see small marks made here

by tiny fingers, and others by little damp lips? You made them when you

were five years old; you were sitting on my knee in the train, and we

saw the Alps for the first time. You thought what you saw was Heaven;

and when I explained that the mountain was the Jungfrau, you asked if

you could kiss the name in the book.

DAUGHTER. I don't remember that!

STRANGER. Delightful memories pass, but hateful ones remain! Don't you

remember anything about me?

DAUGHTER. Oh yes.

STRANGER. Quiet! I know what you mean. One night... one dreadful,

horrible night... Sylvia, my child, when I shut my eyes I see a pale

little angel, who slept in my arms when she was ill; and who thanked

me when I gave her a present. Where is she whom I long for so and

who exists no more, although she isn't dead? You, as you are, seem a

stranger, whom I've never known and certainly don't long to see

again. If Sylvia at least were dead and lay in her grave, there'd be a

churchyard where I could take my flowers.... How strange it is! She's

neither among the living, nor the dead. Perhaps she never existed, and

was only a dream like everything else.

DAUGHTER (wheedling).Father, dear!

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

been ruined?

DAUGHTER. Yes. But why speak of it now?

STRANGER. Because remember I once saved _your_ life. You had brain fever

for a whole month and suffered a great deal. Your mother wanted the

doctor to deliver you from your unhappy existence by some powerful drug.

But I prevented it, and so saved you from death and your mother from

prison.

DAUGHTER. I don't believe it!

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

DAUGHTER. You dreamed it.

STRANGER. Who knows if I haven't dreamed everything, and am not even

dreaming now. How I wish it were so!

DAUGHTER. I must be going, father.

STRANGER. Then good-bye!

DAUGHTER. May I write to you?

STRANGER. What? One of the dead write to another? Letters won't reach

me in future. And I mayn't receive visitors. But I'm glad we've met,

for now there's nothing else on earth I cling to. (Going to the left.)

Good-bye, girl or woman, whatever I should call you. There's no need to

weep!

DAUGHTER. I wasn't thinking of weeping, though I dare say good breeding

would demand I should. Well, good-bye! (She goes out right.)

STRANGER (to the CONFESSOR). I think I came out of that well! It's a

mercy to part with content on both sides. Mankind, after all, makes

rapid progress, and self-control increases as the flow of the tear-ducts

lessens. I've seen so many tears shed in my lifetime, that I'm almost

taken aback at this dryness. She was a strong child, just the kind I

once wished to be. The most beautiful thing that life can offer! She

lay, like an angel, wrapped in the white veils of her cradle, with a

blue coverlet when she slept. Blue and arched like the sky. That was the

best: what will the worst look like?

CONFESSOR. Don't excite yourself, but be of good cheer. First throw away

that foolish guide-book, for this is your last journey.

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

the pages and then throws it into the river.) Anything else?

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

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

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

wine.

STRANGER. The last! It's like an execution! Perhaps I'll have to have my

hair cut, too?

CONFESSOR. Yes. Later. (He takes the watch and goes to the door of the

ferryman's hut, speaking a few whispered words to someone within. He

receives a bottle of wine and a glass in exchange, which he puts on the

table.)

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

wine up there?

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

not the kind of songs that go with women and wine.

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

CONFESSOR. Are you sure?

STRANGER. Quite sure.... But tell me this: what do you think of women,

who mayn't even set their feet within your consecrated walls?

CONFESSOR. So you're still asking questions?

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

and never preach?

CONFESSOR. I can't answer that.

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

theme.

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

STRANGER. Not at all!

CONFESSOR. Now drink up your wine.

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

beautiful....

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

of the cup.

STRANGER. And oblivion, and songs, and power--imaginary power, but for

that reason all the greater.

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

STRANGER. 'Sh! I can hear singing, and I can see.... I can see.... For

a moment I saw a flag unfurling in a puff of wind, only to fall back

on the flagstaff and hang there limply as if it were nothing but a

dishcloth. I've witnessed my whole life flashing past in a second,

with its joys and sorrows, its beauty and its misery! But now I can see

nothing.

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

ferry.

(The STRANGER goes so far up stage that the rays of the setting sun,

which are streaming from the right through the trees, throw his shadow

across the bank and the river. The LADY enters from the right, in deep

mourning. Her shadow slowly approaches that of the STRANGER.)

STRANGER (who, to begin with, looks only at his own shadow). Ah! The

sun! It makes me a bloodless shape, a giant, who can walk on the water

of the river, climb the mountain, stride over the roof of the monastery

church, and rise, as he does now, up into the firmament--up to the

stars. Ah, now I'm up here with the stars.... (He notices the shadow

thrown by the LADY.) But who's following me? Who's interrupting my

ascension? Trying to climb on my shoulders? (Turning.) You!

LADY. Yes. I!

STRANGER. So black! So black and so evil.

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

STRANGER. For whom?

LADY. For our Mizzi.

STRANGER. My daughter! (The LADY opens her arms, in order to throw

herself on to his breast, but he avoids her.) I congratulate the dead

child. I'm sorry for you. I myself feel outside everything.

LADY. Comfort me, too.

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

amuse my tormentor.

LADY. Have you no feelings?

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

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

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

going?

LADY. I want to cross with the ferry.

STRANGER. Then I've no luck, for I wanted to do the same. (The LADY

weeps into her handkerchief. The STRANGER takes it from her and dries

her eyes.) Dry your eyes, child, and be yourself! As hard, and lacking

in feeling, as you really are! (The LADY tries to put her arm round his

neck. The STRANGER taps her gently on the fingers.) You mustn't touch

me. When your words and glances weren't enough, you always wanted to

touch me. You'll excuse a rather trivial question: are you hungry?

LADY. No. Thank you.

STRANGER. But you're tired. Sit down. (The LADY sits down at the table.

The STRANGER throws the bottle and glass into the river.) Well, what are

you going to live for now?

LADY (sadly). I don't know.

STRANGER. Where will you go?

LADY (sobbing). I don't know.

STRANGER. So you're in despair? You see no reason for living and no end

to your misery! How like me you are! What a pity there's no monastery

for both sexes, so that we could pair off together. Is the werewolf

still alive?

LADY. You mean...?

STRANGER. Your first husband.

LADY. He never seems to die.

STRANGER. Like a certain worm! (Pause.) And now that we're so far from

the world and its pettiness, tell me this: why did you leave him in

those days, and come to me?

LADY. Because I loved you.

STRANGER. And how long did that last?

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

STRANGER. And then?

LADY. I hated you! That is, I wanted to be rid of all the evil you'd

given me, but I couldn't.

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

LADY. Have you noticed how impossible it is to find things out? You can

live with a person and their relations for twenty years, and yet not

know anything about them.

STRANGER. So you've discovered that? As you see so much, tell me this:

how was it you came to love me?

LADY. I don't know; but I'll try to remember. (Pause.) Well, you had

the masculine courage to be rude to a lady. In me you sought the

companionship of a human being and not merely of a woman. That honoured

me; and, I thought, you too.

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

LADY. A woman-hater? Every healthy man is one, in the secret places of

his heart; and all perverted men are admirers of women.

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

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

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

LADY. Thinking's the least I've done; for when I've thought least

I've understood most. Besides, what I said just how is perhaps only

improvised, as you call it, and not true in the least.

STRANGER. But if it agrees with many of my observations it becomes most

probable. (The LADY weeps into her handkerchief.) You're weeping again?

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

STRANGER. No. You were the loveliest thing, when you sat all night

watching over your child, who was lying in your bed, because her cradle

was too cold! (Three loud knocks are heard on the ferryman's door.) 'Sh!

LADY. What's that?

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

LADY (continuing the conversation). I never thought life would give me

anything so sweet as a child.

STRANGER. And at the same time anything so bitter.

LADY. Why bitter?

STRANGER. You've been a child yourself, and you must remember how we,

when we'd just married, came to your mother in rags, dirty and without

money. I seem to remember she didn't find us very sweet.

LADY. That's true.

STRANGER. And I... well, just now I met Sylvia. And I expected that all

that was beautiful and good in the child would have blossomed in the

girl....

LADY. Well?

STRANGER. I found a faded rose, that seemed to have blown too soon. Her

breasts were sunken, her hair untidy like that of a neglected child, and

her teeth decayed.

LADY. Oh!

STRANGER. You mustn't grieve. Not for the child! You might perhaps have

had to grieve for her later, as I did.

LADY. So that's what life is?

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

myself alive.

LADY. Where?

STRANGER (pointing to the monastery). Up there!

LADY. In the monastery? No, don't leave me. Bear me company. I'm so

alone in the world and so poor, so poor! When the child died, my mother

turned me out, and ever since I've been living in an attic with a

dressmaker. At first she was kind and pleasant, but then the lonely

evenings got too long for her, and she went out in search of company--so

we parted. Now I'm on the road, and I've nothing but the clothes I'm

wearing; nothing but my grief. I eat it and drink it; it nourishes me

and sends me to sleep. I'd rather lose anything in the world than that!

(The STRANGER weeps.) You're weeping. You! Let me kiss your eyelids.

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

LADY. Not for your sake! You never did me an ill turn; but I plagued you

till you left your fireside and your child!

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

me?

LADY. Probably. I don't know.

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

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

STRANGER. You're right. The quarrels would only begin all over again.

And yet it's difficult to part.

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

STRANGER. Then what are we to do?

LADY. I don't know.

STRANGER. No, one knows nothing, hardly even that one knows nothing; and

that's why, you see, I've got as far as to _believe_.

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

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

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

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

LADY. Because one has to demean oneself first.

STRANGER. Life does that for one very well.

LADY. Mizzi, Mizzi, Mizzi!... (She has taken a shawl she was carrying

over her arm, rolled it up and put it on her knee like a baby in long

clothes.) Sleep! Sleep! Sleep! Think of it! I can see her here! She's

smiling at me; but she's dressed in black; she seems to be in mourning

too! How stupid I am! Her mother's in mourning! She's got two teeth

down below, and they're white--milk teeth; she should never have cut any

others. Oh, can't you see her, when I can? It's no vision. It _is_ her!

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

Come. Everything's ready!

STRANGER. No. Not yet. I must first set my house in order; and look

after this woman, who was once my wife.

CONFESSOR. Oh, so you want to stay!

STRANGER. No. I don't want to stay; but I can't leave duties behind me

unfulfilled. This woman's on the road, deserted, without a home, without

money!

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

STRANGER. Is that your teaching?

CONFESSOR. No, yours.... Mine, on the other hand, commands me to send a

Sister of Mercy here, to look after this unhappy one, who... who... The

Sister will soon be here!

STRANGER. I shall count on it.

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

come!

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

CONFESSOR. Amen!

(The LADY, who has not been looking at the CONFESSOR and the STRANGER,

now raises her eyes and glances at the STRANGER as if she wanted to

spring up and hold him back; but she is prevented by the imaginary child

she has put to her breast.)

Curtain.

ACT II

CROSS-ROADS IN THE MOUNTAINS

[A cross-roads high up in the mountains. On the right, huts. On the left

a small pool, round which invalids are sitting. Their clothes are blue

and their hands cinnabar-red. From the pond blue vapour and small blue

flames rise now and then. Whenever this happens the invalids put them

hands to their mouths and cough. The background is formed by a mountain

covered with pine-wood, which is obscured above by a stationary bank of

mist.]

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

CONFESSOR comes forward from the right.]

STRANGER. At last!

CONFESSOR. What do you mean: at last?

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

back.

CONFESSOR. Hadn't I prepared you for the fact that the way to the white

house up there would be long and difficult.

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

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

STRANGER. But where's the sun?

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

STRANGER. Then we shall have to go through them?

CONFESSOR. Yes. Of course.

STRANGER. What are those patients doing there? What a company! And why

are their hands so red?

CONFESSOR. For both our sakes I want to avoid using impure words, so

I'll speak in pleasant riddles, which you, as a writer, will understand.

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

CONFESSOR. You may have noticed that the signs given to the planets

correspond with those of certain metals? Good! Then you'll have seen

that Venus is represented by a mirror. This mirror was originally made

of copper, so that copper was called Venus and bore her stamp. But now

the reverse of Venus' mirror is covered with quicksilver or mercury!

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

CONFESSOR. Quicksilver is therefore the reverse side of Venus.

Quicksilver is itself as bright as a calm sea, as a lake at the height

of summer; but when mercury meets firestone and burns, it blushes and

turns red like newly-shed blood, like the cloth on the scaffold, like

the cinnabar lips of the whore! Do you understand now, or not?

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

CONFESSOR. Yes. Mercury must be burnt, if it comes too near to Venus!

Have we said enough now?

STRANGER. So these are sulphur springs?

CONFESSOR. Yes. And the sulphur flames purify or burn everything rotten!

So when the source of life's grown tainted, one is sent to the sulphur

springs....

STRANGER. How does the source of life grow tainted?

CONFESSOR. When Aphrodite, born of the pure seafoam, wallows in the

mire.... When Aphrodite Urania, the heaven-born, degrades herself to

Pandemos, the Venus of the streets.

STRANGER. Why is desire born?

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

STRANGER. What is pure, and what impure?

CONFESSOR. Have you got back to that?

STRANGER. Ask these men here....

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

support his gaze.)

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

CONFESSOR. Yes, I'll steal the air you use to form rebellious words, and

ask outrageous questions. Sit down there, I'll come back--when you've

learnt patience and undergone your probation. But don't forget that I

can hear and see you, and am aware of you, wherever I may be!

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

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

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

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

Who is it?

CONFESSOR. Who are you speaking of?

STRANGER. That old woman there?

CONFESSOR. Who's she?

STRANGER (calling). Maia! Listen! (Old Maia has disappeared. The

STRANGER hurries after her.) Maia, my friend, listen! She's gone!

CONFESSOR. Who was it?

STRANGER (sitting down). O God! Now, when I find her again at last,

she goes.... I've looked for her for seven long years, written letters,

advertised....

CONFESSOR. Why?

STRANGER. I'll tell you how her fate was linked to mine! (Pause.) Maia

was the nurse in my first family... during those hard years... when I

was fighting the Invisible Ones, who wouldn't bless my work! I wrote

till my brain and nerves dissolved like fat in alcohol... but it wasn't

enough! I was one of those who never could earn enough. And the day came

when I couldn't pay the maids their wages--it was terrible--and I became

the servant of my servant, and she became my mistress. At last... in

order, at least, to save my soul, I fled from what was too powerful for

me. I fled into the wilderness, where I collected my spirit in solitude

and recovered my strength! My first thought then was--my debts! For

seven years I looked for Maia, but in vain! For seven years I saw her

shadow, out of the windows of trains, from the decks of steamers, in

strange towns, in distant lands, but without ever being able to find

her. I dreamed of her for seven years; and whenever I drank a glass

of wine I blushed at the thought of old Maia, who perhaps was drinking

water in a poorhouse! I tried to give the sum I owed her to the poor;

but it was no use. And now--she's found and lost in the same moment!

(He gets up and goes towards the back as if searching for her.) Explain

this, if you can! I want to pay my debt; I can pay it now, but I'm not

allowed to.

CONFESSOR. Foolishness' Bow to what seems inexplicable; you'll see that

the explanation will come later. Farewell!

STRANGER. Later. Everything comes later.

CONFESSOR. Yes. If it doesn't come at once! (He goes out. The LADY

enters pensively and sits down at the table, opposite the STRANGER.)

STRANGER. What? You back again? The same and not the same? How beautiful

you've grown; as beautiful as you were the first time I ever saw you;

when I asked if I might be your friend, your dog.

LADY. That you can see beauty I don't possess shows that once more

you have a mirror of beauty in your eye. The werewolf never thought me

beautiful, for he'd nothing beautiful with which to see me.

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

LADY. You've often asked me that, and I've never been able to find the

answer, because I don't know. But just now, when I was away from you,

here in the mountains, where the air's purer and the sun nearer....

Hush! Now I can see that Sunday afternoon, when you sat on that seat

like a lost and helpless child, with a broken look in your eyes, and

stared at your own destiny.... A maternal feeling I'd never known before

welled up in me then, and I was overcome with pity, pity for a human

soul--so that I forgot myself.

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

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

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

LADY. Why did you think so badly of me? Didn't you notice that I drew

down my veil; so that it was between us, like the knight's sword in the

bridal bed....

STRANGER. I'm ashamed. I attributed my evil thoughts to you. Ingeborg,

you were made of better stuff than I. I'm ashamed!

LADY. Now you look handsome. How handsome!

STRANGER. Oh no. Not I. You!

LADY (ecstatically). No, you! Yes, now I've seen through the mask

and the false beard. Now I can see the man you hid from me, the man I

thought I'd found in you... the man I was always searching for. I've

often thought you a hypocrite; but we're no hypocrites. No, no, we can't

pretend.

STRANGER. Ingeborg, now we're on the other side of the river, and have

life beneath us, behind us... how different everything seems. Now, now,

I can see your soul; the ideal, the angel, who was imprisoned in the

flesh because of sin. So there is an Above, and an Earlier Age. When

we began it wasn't the beginning, and it won't be the end when we are

ended. Life is a fragment, without beginning or end! That's why it's so

difficult to make head or tail of it.

LADY (kindly). So difficult. So difficult. Tell me, for instance--now

we're beyond guilt or innocence--how was it you came to hate women?

STRANGER. Let me think! To hate women? Hate them? I never hated them. On

the contrary! Ever since I was eight years old I've always had some love

affair, preferably an innocent one. And I've loved like a volcano three

times! But wait--I've always felt that women hated me... and they've

always tortured me.

LADY. How strange!

STRANGER. Let me think about it a little.... Perhaps I've been jealous

of my own personality; and been afraid of being influenced too much. My

first love made herself into a sort of governess and nurse to me. But,

of course, there _are_ men who detest children; who detest women too, if

they're superior to them, that is!

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

mean it?

STRANGER. Of course I meant it, if I wrote it! For I wrote out of

experience, not theory.... In woman I sought an angel, who could lend

me wings, and I fell into the arms of an earth-spirit, who suffocated me

under mattresses stuffed with the feathers of wings! I sought an Ariel

and I found a Caliban; when I wanted to rise she dragged me down; and

continually reminded me of the fall....

LADY (kindly). Solomon knew much of women; do you know what he said? 'I

find more bitter than death a woman, whose heart is snares and nets and

her hands as bands; whoso pleaseth God shall escape from her; but the

sinner shall be taken by her.'

STRANGER. I was never acceptable in God's sight. Was that a punishment?

Perhaps. But I was never acceptable to anyone, and I've never had a good

word addressed to me! Have I never done a good action? Is it possible

for a man never to have done anything good? (Pause.) It's terrible never

to hear any good words about oneself!

LADY. You've heard them. But when people have spoken well of you, you've

refused to listen, as if it hurt you.

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

LADY. Explain it? You're always asking for explanations of the

inexplicable. 'When I applied my heart to know wisdom... I beheld all

the work of God, that a man cannot find out that is done under the sun.

Because, though a man labour to seek it out, yet he shall not find it;

yea, further, though a wise man think to know it, yet shall he not be

able to find it!'

STRANGER. Who says that?

LADY. The Prophet Ecclesiastes. (She takes a doll out of her pocket.)

This is Mizzi's doll. You see she longs for her little mistress! How

pale she's grown... and she seems to know where Mizzi is, for she's

always gazing up to heaven, whichever way I hold her. Look! Her eyes

follow the stars as the compass the pole. She is my compass and always

shows me where heaven is. She should, of course, be dressed in black,

because she's in mourning; but we're so poor.... Do you know why we

never had money? Because God was angry with us for our sins. 'The

righteous suffer no dearth.'

STRANGER. Where did you learn that?

LADY. In a book in which everything's written. Everything! (She wraps

the doll up in her cloak.) See, she's beginning to get cold--that's

because of the cloud up there....

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

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

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

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

horrible now.

STRANGER. Ingeborg! I have made you evil, yet you're on the way to make

me good! It was my dream, you know, to seek redemption through a woman.

You don't believe it! But it's true. In the old days nothing was of

value to me if I couldn't lay it at a woman's feet. Not as a tribute

to an overbearing mistress,... but as a sacrifice to the beautiful

and good. It was my pleasure to give; but she wanted to take and not

receive: that's why she hated me! When I was helpless and thought the

end was near, a desire grew in me to fall asleep on a mother's knee, on

a tremendous breast where I could bury my tired head and drink in the

tenderness I'd been deprived of.

LADY. You had no mother?

STRANGER. Hardly! And I've never felt any bond between myself and my

father or my brothers and sisters.... Ingeborg, I was the son of a

servant of whom it is written. 'Drive forth the handmaid with her son,

for this son shall not inherit with the son of peace.'

LADY. Do you know why Ishmael was driven out? It says just before--that

he was a scoffer. And then it goes on: 'He will be a wild man, his hand

will be against every man, and every man's hand against him; and against

all his brothers.'

STRANGER. Is that also written?

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

STRANGER. All?

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

inquisitive!

STRANGER. Call me your child, and then I'll love you.... And if I

love anyone, I long to serve them, to obey them, to let myself be

ill-treated, to suffer and to bear it.

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

STRANGER. He's unfriendly--like my father!

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

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

LADY (coaxingly). Quiet! Be still!

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

know where I am.

LADY. Where do you think?

STRANGER. There's a woman in that but who looks at me as if I'd come to

rob her of her last mite. She says nothing--that's the trouble. But I

think it's prayers she mutters, when she sees me.

LADY. What sort of prayers?

STRANGER. The sort one whispers behind the backs of those who have the

evil eye or bring misfortune.

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

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

HOSTESS (coming across to their table). Well, look at that! I suppose

she's your sister?

STRANGER. Yes. We can say so now.

HOSTESS (to the LADY). Fancy meeting someone I can speak to at last!

This gentleman's so silent, you see, that one feels at once one must

respect him; particularly as he seems to have had trouble. But I can

say this to his sister, and he shall hear it: that from the moment

he entered the house I felt that I was blessed. I'd been dogged by

misfortune; I'd no lodger, my only cow had died, my husband was in a

home for drunkards and my children had nothing to eat. I prayed God to

send me help from heaven, because I expected nothing more on earth. Then

this gentleman came. And apart from giving me double what I asked, he

brought me good luck--and my house was blessed. God bless you, good sir!

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

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

STRANGER. When I look at you, I do believe. She's giving me her

blessing! And I, who'm damned, have brought a blessing on her! How can I

believe it? I, of all men! (He falls down by the table and weeps in his

hands.)

LADY. He's weeping! Tears, rain from heaven, that can soften rocks, are

falling on his stony heart.... He's weeping!

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

good to my children!

LADY. You hear what she says!

HOSTESS. There's only one thing about him I don't understand; but I

don't want to say anything unpleasant....

LADY. What is it?

HOSTESS. Only a trifle; and yet...

LADY. Well?

HOSTESS. He didn't like my dogs.

LADY. I can't blame him for not caring for an impure beast. I hate

everything animal, in myself and others. I don't hate animals on that

account, for I hate nothing that's created....

STRANGER. Thank you, Ingeborg!

LADY. You see! I've an eye for your merits, even though you don't

believe it.... Here comes the Confessor.

(The CONFESSOR enters.)

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

LADY. The Confessor loves all mankind.

CONFESSOR (coming forward and speaking to the LADY). You best of all, my

child; for you're goodness itself. Whether you're beautiful to look at,

I can't see; but I know you must be, because you're good. Yes, you were

the bride of my youth, and my spiritual mate; and you'll always be so,

for you gave me what you were never able to give to others. I've

lived your life in my spirit, suffered your pains, enjoyed your

pleasures--pleasure rather, for you'd no others than what your child

gave you. I alone have seen the beauty of your soul--my friend here has

divined it; that's why he felt attracted to you--but the evil in him

was too strong; you had to draw it out of him into yourself to free

him. Then, being evil, you had to suffer the worst pains of hell for his

sake, to bring atonement. Your work's ended. You can go in peace!

LADY. Where?

CONFESSOR. Up there. Where the sun's always shining.

LADY (rising). Is there a home for me there, too?

CONFESSOR. There's a home for everyone! I'll show you the way. (He goes

with her into the background. The STRANGER makes a movement.) You're

impatient? You mustn't be! (He goes out. The STRANGER remains sitting

alone. The WORSHIPPERS OF VENUS get up, go towards him and form a circle

round him.)

STRANGER. What do you want with me?

WORSHIPPERS. Hail! Father.

STRANGER (much upset). Why call me that?

FIRST VOICE. Because we're your children. Your dear ones!

STRANGER (tries to escape, but is surrounded and cannot). Let me go. Let

me go!

SECOND VOICE (that of a pale youth). Don't you recognise me, Father?

TEMPTER (appearing in the background at the left-hand fork of the path).

Ha!

STRANGER (to the Second Voice). Who are you? I seem to know your face.

SECOND VOICE. I'm Erik--your son!

STRANGER. Erik! You here?

SECOND VOICE. Yes. I'm here.

STRANGER. God have mercy! And you, my boy, forgive me!

SECOND VOICE. Never! You showed us the way to the sulphur springs! Is it

far to the lake?

(The STRANGER falls to the ground.)

TEMPTER. Ha! Jubilate, temptatores!

VENUS WORSHIPPERS. Sulphur! Sulphur! Sulphur! Mercury!

TEMPTER (coming forward and touching the STRANGER with his foot). The

worm! You can make him believe whatever you like. That comes from his

unbelievable pride. Does he think he's the mainspring of the universe,

the originator of all evil? This foolish man believes he taught youth to

go in search of Venus; as if youth hadn't done that long before he was

born! His pride's insupportable, and he's been rash enough to try to

botch my work for me. Give him another greeting, lying Erik! (The SECOND

VOICE--that is the youth--bends over the STRANGER and whispers in his

ear.) There were seven deadly sins; but now there are eight. The eighth

I discovered! It's called despair. For to despair of what is good,

and not to hope for forgiveness, is to call... (He hesitates before

pronouncing the word God, as if it burnt his lips.) God wicked. That is

calumny, denial, blasphemy.... Look how he winces!

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

you?

TEMPTER. Your brother. Don't we resemble one another? Some of your

features seem to remind me of my portrait.

STRANGER. Where have I seen it?

TEMPTER. Almost everywhere! I'm often to be found in churches, though

not amongst the saints.

STRANGER. I can't remember....

TEMPTER. Is it so long since you've been to church? I'm usually

represented with St. George. (The STRANGER totters and would like to

fly, but cannot.) Michael and I are sometimes to be seen in a group, in

which, to be sure, I don't appear in the most favourable light; but that

can be altered. All can be altered; and one day the last shall be first.

It's just the same in your case. For the moment, things are going badly

with you, but that can be altered too... if you've enough intelligence

to change your company. You've had too much to do with skirts, my son.

Skirts raise dust, and dust lies on eyes and breast.... Come and sit

down. We'll have a chat.... (He takes the STRANGER jocularly by the ear

and leads him round the table.) Sit down and tremble, young man! (They

both sit down.) Well? What shall we do? Call for wine--and a woman? No!

That's too old a trick, as old as Doctor Faust! Bon! We modern are in

search of mental dissipation.... So you're on your way to those holy men

up there, who think that they who sleep can't sin; to the cowardly ones,

who've given up the battle of life, because they were defeated once or

twice; to those that bind souls rather than free them.... And talking of

that! Has any saintly man ever freed you from the burden of sin? No!

Do you know why sin has been oppressing you for so long? Through

renunciation and abstinence, you've grown so weak that anyone can seize

your soul and take possession of it. Why, they can even do it from a

distance! You've so destroyed your personality that you see with strange

eyes, hear with strange ears and think strange thoughts. In a word

you've murdered your own soul. Just now, didn't you speak well of the

enemies of mankind; of Woman, who made a hell of paradise? You needn't

answer me; I can read your answer in your eyes and hear it on your lips.

You talk of pure love for a woman! That's lust, young man, lust after a

woman, which we have to pay for so dearly. You say you don't desire her.

Then why do you want to be near her? You'd like to have a friend? Take a

male friend, many of them! You've let them convince you you're no woman

hater. But the woman gave you the right answer; every healthy man's a

woman hater, but can't live without linking himself to his enemy, and

so must fight her! All perverse and unmanly men are admirers of women!

How's it with you now? So you saw those invalids and thought yourself

responsible for their misery? They're tough fellows, you can believe

me; they'll be able to leave here in a few days and go back to their

occupations. Oh yes, lying Erik's a wag! But things have gone so far

with you, that you can't distinguish between your own and other people's

children. Wouldn't it be a great thing to escape from all this? What do

you say? Oh, I could free you... but I'm no saint. Now we'll call old

Maia. (He whistles between his fingers: MAIA appears.) Ah, there you

are! Well, what are you doing here? Have you any business with this

fellow?

MAIA. No. He's good and always was; but he'd a terrible wife.

TEMPTER (to the STRANGER). Listen! You've not heard that yet, have you?

Rather the opposite. She was the good angel, whom you ruined... we've

all been told that! Now, old Maia, what kind of story is it he prattles

of? He says he was plagued with remorse for seven years because he owed

you money.

MAIA. He owed me a small sum once; but I got it back from him--and with

good interest--much better than the savings bank would have given me. It

was very good of him--very kind.

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

forgotten?

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

MAIA. The gentleman must have the receipt; but I've got the savings bank

book here. He paid the money into it in my name. (She produces a savings

bank book, and hands it to the STRANGER, who looks at it.)

STRANGER. Yes, that's quite right. Now I remember. Then why this

seven-year torment, shame and disgrace? Those reproaches during

sleepless nights? Why? Why? Why?

TEMPTER. Old Maia, you can go now. But first say something nice about

this self-tormentor. Can't you remember any human quality in this wild

beast, whom human beings have baited for years?

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

fingers.)

TEMPTER. Well, Maia?

MAIA. I know well enough what they say about him, but that refers to

what he writes--and I've not read it for I can't read. Still, no one

need read it, if they don't want to. Anyhow the gentleman's been very

kind. Now he's stopping his ears. I don't know how to flatter; but I can

say this in a whisper.... (She whispers some thing to the TEMPTER.)

TEMPTER. Yes. All human beings who are easily moved are baited like wild

beasts! It's the rule. Good bye, old Maia!

MAIA. Good-bye, kind gentlemen. (She goes out.)

STRANGER. Why did I suffer innocently for seven years?

TEMPTER (pointing upwards with one finger). Ask up there!

STRANGER. Where I never get an answer!

TEMPTER. Well, that may be. (Pause.) Do you think _I_ look good?

STRANGER. I can't say I do.

TEMPTER. You look extremely wicked, too! Do you know why we look like

that?

STRANGER. No.

TEMPTER. The hate and malice of our fellow human beings have fastened

themselves on us. Up there, you know, there are real saints, who've

never done anything wicked themselves, but who suffer for others, for

relations, who've committed unexpiated sins. Those angels, who've taken

the depravity of others on themselves, really resemble bandits. What do

you say to that?

STRANGER. I don't know who you are; but you're the first to answer

questions that might reconcile me to life. You are....

TEMPTER. Well, say it!

STRANGER. The deliverer!

TEMPTER. And therefore....?

STRANGER. Therefore you've been given a vulture.... But listen, have you

ever thought that there's as good a reason for this as for everything

else? Granted the earth's a prison, on which dangerous prisoners are

confined--is it a good thing to set them free? Is it right?

TEMPTER. What a question! I've never really thought about it. Hm!

STRANGER. And have you ever thought of this: we may be born in guilt?

TEMPTER. That's nothing to do with me: I concern myself with the

present.

STRANGER. Good! Don't you think we're sometimes punished wrongly, so

that we fail to see the logical connection, though it exists?

TEMPTER. Logic's not missing; but all life's a tissue of offences,

mistakes, errors, that are comparatively blameless owing to human

weakness, but that are punished by the most consistent revenge.

Everything's revenged, even our injudicious actions. Who forgives? A

magnanimous man-sometimes; heavenly justice, never! (A PILGRIM appears

in the background.) See! A penitent! I'd like to know what wrong he's

done. We'll ask him. Welcome to our quiet meadows, peaceful wanderer!

Take your place at the simple table of the ascetic, at which there are

no more temptations.

PILGRIM. Thank you, fellow traveller in the vale of woe.

TEMPTER. What kind of woe is yours?

PILGRIM. None in particular; on the contrary, the hour of liberation's

struck, and I'm going up there to receive absolution.

STRANGER. Listen, haven't we two met before?

PILGRIM. I think so, certainly.

STRANGER. Caesar! You're Caesar!

PILGRIM. I used to be; but I am no longer.

TEMPTER. Ha ha! Imperial acquaintance. Really! But tell us, tell us!

PILGRIM. You shall hear. Now I've a right to speak, for my penance is at

an end. When we met at a certain doctor's house, I was shut up there

as a madman and supposed to be suffering from the illusion that I was

Caesar. Now the Stranger shall hear the truth of the matter: I never

believed it, but I was forced by scruples of conscience to put a good

face on it.... A friend of mine, a bad friend, had written proof that I

was the victim of a misunderstanding; but he didn't speak when he should

have, and I took his silence as a request not to speak either-and to

suffer. Why did I? Well, in my youth I was once in great need. I was

received as a guest in a house on an island far out to sea by a man who,

in spite of unusual gifts, had been passed over for promotion--owing to

his senseless pride. This man, by solitary brooding on his lot, had come

to hold quite extraordinary views about himself. I noticed it, but I

said nothing. One day this man's wife told me that he was sometimes

mentally unbalanced; and then thought he was Julius Caesar. For many

years I kept this secret conscientiously, for I'm not ungrateful by

nature. But life's tricky. It happened a few years later that this

Caesar laid rough hands on my most intimate fate. In anger at this I

betrayed the secret of his Caesar mania and made my erstwhile benefactor

such a laughing stock, that his existence became unbearable to him. And

now listen how Nemesis overtakes one! A year later I wrote a book-I am,

you must know, an author who's not made his name.... And in this book I

described incidents of family life: how I played with my daughter--she

was called Julia, as Caesar's daughter was--and with my wife, whom we

called Caesar's wife because no one spoke evil of her.... Well, this

recreation, in which my mother-in-law joined too, cost me dear. When I

was looking through the proofs of my book, I saw the danger and said to

myself: you'll trip yourself up. I wanted to cut it out but, if you'll

believe it, the pen refused, and an inner voice said to me: let it

stand! It did stand! And I fell.

STRANGER. Why didn't you publish the letter from your friend that would

have explained everything?

PILGRIM. When the disaster had happened I felt at once that it was the

finger of God, and that I must suffer for my ingratitude.

STRANGER. And you did suffer?

PILGRIM. Not at all! I smiled to myself and wouldn't let myself be put

out. And because I accepted my punishment with calmness and humility God

lightened my burden; and I didn't feel myself ridiculous.

TEMPTER. That's a strange story; but such things happen. Shall we move

on now? We'll go for an excursion, now we've weathered the storms. Pull

yourself up by the roots, and then we'll climb the mountain.

STRANGER. The Confessor told me to wait for him.

TEMPTER. He'll find you, anyhow! And up here in the village the court's

sitting to-day. A particularly interesting case is to be tried; and I

dare say I'll be called as a witness. Come!

STRANGER. Well, whether I sit here, or up there, is all the same to me.

PILGRIM (to the STRANGER). Who's that?

STRANGER. I don't know. He looks like an anarchist.

PILGRIM. Interesting, anyhow!

STRANGER. He's a sceptical gentleman, who's seen life.

TEMPTER. Come, children; I'll tell you stories on the way. Come. Come!

(They go out towards the background.)

Curtain.

ACT III

SCENE I

TERRACE ON THE MOUNTAIN

[A Terrace on the mountain on which the Monastery stands. On the right

a rocky cliff and a similar one on the left. In the far background a

bird's-eye view of a river landscape with towns, villages, ploughed

fields and woods; in the very far distance the sea can be seen. Down

stage an apple tree laden with fruit. Under it a long table with a chair

at the end and benches at the sides. Down stage, right, a corner of

the village town hall. A cloud seems to be hanging immediately over the

village.]

[The MAGISTRATE sits at the end of the table in the capacity of judge;

the assessors on the benches. The ACCUSED MAN is standing on the right

by the MAGISTRATE; the witnesses on the left, amongst them the TEMPTER.

Members of the public, with the PILGRIM and the STRANGER, are standing

here and there not far from the judge's seat.]

MAGISTRATE. Is the accused present?

ACCUSED MAN. Yes. Present.

MAGISTRATE. This is a very sad story, that's brought trouble and shame

on our small community. Florian Reicher, twenty-three years old, is

accused of shooting at Fritz Schlipitska's affianced wife, with the

clear intention of killing her. It's a case of premeditated murder, and

the provisions of the law are perfectly clear. Has the accused anything

to say in his defence, or can he plead mitigating circumstances?

ACCUSED MAN. No.

TEMPTER. Ho, there!

MAGISTRATE. Who are you?

TEMPTER. Counsel for the accused.

MAGISTRATE. The accused man certainly has a right to the services of

counsel, but in the present case I think the facts are so clear that the

people have reached a certain conclusion; and the murderer will hardly

be able to regain their sympathy. Isn't that so?

PEOPLE. He's condemned already!

TEMPTER. Who by?

PEOPLE. The Law and his own deed.

TEMPTER. Listen to me! As counsel for the accused I represent him and

take the accusation on myself. I ask permission to address the court.

MAGISTRATE. I can't refuse it.

PEOPLE. Florian's been condemned already.

TEMPTER. The case must first be heard. (Pause.) I'd reached my

eighteenth year--it's Florian speaking--and my thoughts, as I grew up

under my mother's watchful eye, were pure; and my heart without deceit,

for I'd never seen or heard anything wicked. Then I--Florian, that

is--met a young girl who seemed to me the most beautiful creature I'd

ever set eyes on in this wicked world, for she was goodness itself. I

offered her my hand, my heart, and my future. She accepted everything

and swore that she'd be true. I was to serve five years for my

Rachel--and I did serve, collecting one straw after another for the

little nest we were going to build. My whole life was centred on the

love of this woman! As I was true to her myself, I never mistrusted her.

By the fifth year I'd built the hut and collected our household goods...

when I discovered she'd been playing with me and had deceived me with at

least three men....

MAGISTRATE. Have you witnesses?

BAILIFF. Three valid ones; I'm one of them.

MAGISTRATE. The bailiff alone will be sufficient.

TEMPTER. Then I shot her; not out of revenge, but in order to free

myself from the unhealthy thoughts her faithlessness had forced on me;

for when I tried to tear her picture out of my heart, images of her

lovers always rose and crept into my blood, so that at last I seemed to

be living in unlawful relationship with three men--with a woman as the

link between us!

MAGISTRATE. Well, that was jealousy!

ACCUSED MAN. Yes, that was jealousy.

TEMPTER. Yes, jealousy, that feeling for cleanliness, that seeks to

preserve thoughts from pollution by strangers. If I'd been content to do

nothing, if I'd not been jealous, I'd have got into vicious company, and

I didn't want to do that. That's why she had to die so that my thoughts

might be cleansed of deadly sin, which alone is to be condemned. I've

finished.

PEOPLE. The dead woman's guilty! Her blood's on her own head.

MAGISTRATE. She's guilty, for she was the cause of the crime.

(The FATHER of the dead woman steps forward.)

FATHER. Your Worship, judge of my dead child; and you, countrymen, let

me speak!

MAGISTRATE. The dead girl's father may speak.

FATHER. You're accusing a dead girl; and I shall answer. Maria, my

child, has undoubtedly been guilty of a crime and is to blame for the

misdeeds of this man. There's no doubt of it!

PEOPLE. No doubt! It's she who's guilty!

FATHER. Permit her father to add a word of explanation, if not of

defence. (Pause.) When she was fifteen, Maria fell into the hands of a

man who seemed to have made it his business to entrap young girls, much

as a bird-catcher traps small birds. He was no seducer, in the ordinary

sense, for he contented himself with binding her senses and entangling

her feelings only to thrust her away and watch how she suffered with

torn wings and a broken heart--tortured by the agony of love, which is

worse than any other agony. For three years Maria was cared for in an

institution for the mentally deranged. And when she came out again, she

was divided, broken into several pieces--it might be said that she was

several persons. She was an angel and feared God with one side of her

spirit; but with another she was a devil, and reviled all that was

holy. I've seen her go straight from dancing and frenzy to her beloved

Florian, and have heard her, in his presence, speak so differently and

so alter her expression, that I could have sworn she was another being.

But to me she seemed equally sincere in both her shapes. Is she to

blame, or her seducer?

PEOPLE. She's not to blame! Where is her seducer?

FATHER. There!

TEMPTER. Yes. It was I.

PEOPLE. Stone him!

MAGISTRATE. The law must run its course. He must be heard.

TEMPTER. Bon! Then listen, Argives! It was like this. Your humble

servant, born of poor but fairly honourable parents, was from the

beginning one of those strange birds who, in their youth, go in search

of their Creator--but without ever finding him, naturally! It's more

usual for old cuckoos to look for him in their dotage--and for good

reasons! The urge for this youthful quest was accompanied by a purity

of heart and a modesty that even caused his nurses to smile--yes, we can

laugh now when we hear that this boy would only change his underclothing

in the dark! But even if we're corrupted by the crudities of life,

we're still bound to find something beautiful in it; and if we're older

something touching! And so we can afford to-day to laugh at his childish

innocence. Scornful laughter, listeners, please.

MAGISTRATE (seriously). He mistakes his listeners.

TEMPTER. Then I ought to be ashamed of myself! (Pause.) He became a

youth--your humble servant--and fell into a series of traps that

were laid for his innocence. I'm an old sinner, but I blush at this

moment.... (He takes of his hat.) Yes, look at me now--when I think of

the insight this young man got into the world of Potiphar's wives that

surrounded him! There wasn't a single woman.... Really, I'm ashamed in

the name of mankind and the female sex--excuse me, please.... There were

moments when I didn't believe my eyes, but thought a devil had blinded

my sight. The holiest bands.... (He pinches his tongue.) No, quiet!

Mankind will feel itself calumniated! Enough, until my twenty-fifth

year I fought the good fight; and I fell because.... Well, I was called

Joseph, and I _was_ Joseph! I grew jealous of my virtue, and felt

injured by the glances of a lewd woman.... And at last, cunningly

seduced, I fell. Then I became a slave of my passions; often and often I

sat by Omphalos and span, until I sank into the deepest degradation and

suffered, suffered, suffered! But in reality it was only my body that

was degraded; my soul lived her own life--her own pure life, I can

say--on her own account. And I raved innocently for pure young virgins

who, it seems, felt the bond that drew us together. Because, without

boasting, I can say they were attracted to me. I didn't want to overstep

the mark, but they did! And when I fled the danger, their hearts were

broken, so they said. In a word, I've never seduced an innocent girl.

I swear it! Am I therefore to blame for the emotional sorrows of this

young woman, who went out of her mind? On the contrary, mayn't I count

it a virtue that I shrank in horror from the step that brought about

her fall? Who'll cast the first stone at me? No one! Then I mistake my

listeners. Indeed, I thought I might be an object of scorn, if I were to

plead here for my masculine innocence! Now, however, I feel young again;

and there's something for which I'd like to ask mankind's forgiveness.

If it weren't that I happened to see a cynical smile on the lips of the

woman who seduced me when I was young. Come forward, woman, and look

upon your work of destruction. Observe, how the seed has grown!

WOMAN (coming forward with dignity and modesty). It was I! Let me

be heard, and let me tell the simple story of my seduction. (Pause.)

Luckily my seducer is here, too....

MAGISTRATE. Friends! I must break off the proceedings; otherwise we'll

get back to Eve in Paradise.

TEMPTER. Who was Adam's seducer! That's just where we want to get back

to. Eve! Come forward, Eve. Eve! (He waves his cloak in the air. The

trunk of the tree becomes transparent and EVE appears, wrapped in her

hair and with a girdle about her loins.) Now, Mother Eve, it was you who

seduced our father. You are the accused: what have you to say in your

defence?

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

TEMPTER. Well answered! Eve has proved her innocence. The serpent! Let

the serpent come forward. (EVE disappears.) The serpent! (The serpent

appears in the tree trunk.) Here you can see the seducer of us all. Now,

serpent, who was it that beguiled you?

ALL (terrified). Silence! Blasphemer!

TEMPTER. Answer, serpent! (Lightning and a clap of thunder; all flee,

except the TEMPTER, who has fallen to the ground, and the PILGRIM, the

STRANGER and the LADY. The TEMPTER begins to recover; he then gets up

and sits down in an attitude that recalls the classical statue 'The

Polisher,' or 'The Slave.') Causa finalis, or the first cause--you can't

discover that! For if the serpent's to blame, then we're comparatively

innocent--but mankind mustn't be told that! The Accused, however, seems

to have got out of this business! And the Court of justice has dissolved

like smoke! Judge not. Judge not, O Judges!

LADY (to the STRANGER). Come with me.

STRANGER. But I'd like to listen to this man.

LADY. Why? He's like a small child, putting all those questions that

can't be answered. You know how little children ask about everything.

'Papa, why does the sun rise in the east?' You know the answer?

STRANGER. Hm!

LADY. Or: 'Mama, who made God?' You think that profound? Well, come with

me.

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

was new....

LADY. Not at all. I learnt it in my Bible history, when I was eight. And

that we inherit the debts of our fathers is part of the law of the land.

Come, my son.

TEMPTER (rising, shaking his limbs and climbing up the rocky wall to the

right with a limp). Come, I'll show you the world you think you know,

but don't.

LADY (climbing up the rocky wall to the left). Come with me, my son, and

I'll show you God's beautiful world, as I've come to see it, since the

tears of sorrow washed the dust from my eyes. Come with me!

(The STRANGER stands irresolute between them.)

TEMPTER (to the LADY). And how have you seen the world through your

tears? Like meadow banks reflected in troubled water! A chaos of curved

lines in which the trees seemed to be standing on their heads. (To

the STRANGER.) No, my son, with my field-glasses, dried in the fire of

hate--with my telescope I can see everything as it is. Clear and sharp,

precisely as it is.

LADY. What do you know of things, my son? You can never see the thing

itself, only its picture; and the picture is illusion and not the thing.

So you argue about pictures and illusions.

TEMPTER. Listen to her! A little philosopher in skirts. By Jupiter

Chronos, such a disputation in this giant amphitheatre of the mountains

demands a proper audience. Hullo!

LADY. I have mine here: my friend, my husband, my child! If he'll only

listen to me, good; all will be well with me, and him. Come to me,

my friend, for this is the way. This is the mountain Gerizim, where

blessings are given. And that is Ebal, where they curse.

TEMPTER. Yes, this is Ebal, where they curse. 'Cursed be the earth,

woman, for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou bring forth children; and thy

desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee.' And then

to the man this: 'Cursed is the ground for thy sake, thorns and thistle

shall it bring forth to thee, and in the sweat of thy brow shalt thou

labour!' So spoke the Lord, not I!

LADY. 'And God blessed the first pair; and He blessed the seventh day,

on which He had completed His work--and the work was good.' But you, and

we, have made it something evil, and that is why.... But he who obeys

the commandments of the Lord dwells on Gerizim, where blessings are

given. Thus saith the Lord. 'Blessed shalt thou be in the city, and

blessed shalt thou be in the field. Blessed shall be thy basket and thy

store. Blessed shalt thou be when thou comest in, and blessed when thou

goest out. And the Lord shall give rain unto thy land in his season

to increase thy harvest, and thy children shall flourish. And the Lord

shall make thee plenteous in goods, to lend to the peoples, and never to

borrow. And the Lord will bless all the work of thy hand, if thou shalt

keep the commandments of the Lord thy God!' (Pause.) So come, my friend,

and lay your hand in mine. (She falls on her knees with clasped hands.)

I beg you, by the love that once united us, by the memory of the

child that drew us together; by the strength of a mother's love--a

mother's--for so have I loved you, erring child, whom I've sought in the

dark places of the wood and whom at last I've found, hungry and withered

for want of love! Come back to me, prodigal one; and bury your tired

head on my heart, where you rested before ever you saw the light of the

sun. (A change comes over her during this speech; her clothing falls

from her and she is seen to have changed into a white-robed woman with

her hair let down and with a full maternal bosom.)

STRANGER. Mother!

LADY. Yes, my child, your mother! In life I could never caress you--the

will of higher powers denied it me. Why that was I don't dare to ask.

STRANGER. But my mother's dead?

LADY. She was; but the dead aren't dead, and maternal love can conquer

death. Didn't you know that? Come, my child, I'll repay where I have

been to blame. I'll rock you to sleep on my knees. I'll wash you clean

from the... (She omits the word she cannot bring herself to utter) of

hate and sin. I'll comb your hair, matted with the sweat of fear; and

air a pure white sheet for you at the fire of a home--a home you've

never had, you who've known no peace, you homeless one, son of Hagar,

the serving woman, born of a slave, against whom every man's hand was

raised. The ploughmen ploughed your back and seared deep furrows there.

Come, I'll heal your wounds, and suffer your sorrows. Come!

STRANGER (who has been weeping so violently that his whole body has been

trembling, now goes to the cliff on the left where the MOTHER stands

with open arms.) I'm coming!

TEMPTER. I can do nothing now. But one day we shall meet again! (He

disappears behind the cliff.)

Curtain.

SCENE II

ROCKY LANDSCAPE ON THE MOUNTAIN

[Higher up the mountain; among the clouds a rocky landscape with a bog

round it. The MOTHER on a rock, climbing until she disappears into the

cloud. The STRANGER stops, bewildered.]

STRANGER. Oh, Mother, Mother! Why are you leaving me? At the very moment

when my loveliest dream was on the point of fulfilment!

TEMPTER (coming forward). What have you been dreaming? Tell me!

STRANGER. My dearest hope, most secret desire and last prayer!

Reconciliation with mankind, through a woman.

TEMPTER. Through a woman who taught you to hate.

STRANGER. Yes, because she bound me to earth--like the round shot a

slave drags on his foot, so that he can't escape.

TEMPTER. You talk of woman. Always woman.

STRANGER. Yes. Woman. The beginning and the end--for us men anyhow. In

relationship to one another they are nothing.

TEMPTER. So that's it; nothing in themselves; but everything for us,

through us! Our honour and our shame; our greatest joy, our deepest

pain; our redemption and our fall; our wages and our punishment; our

strength and our weakness.

STRANGER. Our shame! You've said so. Explain this riddle to me, you

who're wise. Whenever I appeared in public arm in arm with a woman,

my wife, who was beautiful and whom I adored, I felt ashamed of my own

weakness. Explain that riddle to me.

TEMPTER. You felt ashamed? I don't know why.

STRANGER. Can't you answer? You, of all men?

TEMPTER. No, I can't. But I too always suffered when I was with my wife

in company, because I felt she was being soiled by men's glances, and I

through her.

STRANGER. And when she did the shameful deed, you were dishonoured. Why?

TEMPTER. The Eve of the Greeks was called Pandora, and Zeus created her

out of wickedness, in order to torture men and master them. As a wedding

gift she received a box, containing all the unhappiness of the world.

Perhaps the riddle of this sphinx can more easily be guessed, if it's

seen from. Olympus, rather than from the pleasure garden of Paradise.

Its full meaning will never be known to us. Though I'm as able as

you. (Pause.) And, by the way, I can still enjoy the greatest pleasure

creation ever offered! Go you and do likewise!

STRANGER. You mean Satan's greatest illusion! For the woman who seems

most beautiful to me, can seem horrible to others! Even for me, when

she's angry, she can be uglier than any other woman. Then what is

beauty?

TEMPTER. A semblance, a reflection of your own goodness! (He puts his

hand over his mouth.) Curses on it! I let it out that time. And now the

devil's loose....

STRANGER. Devil? Yes. But if she's a devil, how can a devil make me

desire virtue and goodness? For that's what happened to me when I first

saw her beauty; I was seized with a longing to be like her, and so to

be worthy of her. To begin with I tried to be by taking exercise, having

baths, using cosmetics and wearing good clothes; but I only made myself

ridiculous. Then I began from within; I accustomed myself to thinking

good thoughts, speaking well of people and acting nobly! And one day,

when my outward form had moulded itself on the soul within, I became her

likeness, as she said. And it was she who first uttered those wonderful

words: I love you! How can a devil ennoble us; how can a spirit of hell

fill us with goodness; how...? No, she was an angel! A fallen angel,

of course, and her love a broken ray of that great light--that great

eternal light--that warms and loves.... That loves....

TEMPTER. What, old friend, must we stand here like two youths and spell

out the riddles of love?

CONFESSOR (coming in). What's this chatterer saying? He's talked away

his whole life; and never done anything.

TEMPTER. I wanted to be a priest, but had no vocation.

CONFESSOR. Whilst you're waiting for it, help me to find a drunkard

who's drowned himself in the bog. It must be near here, because I've

been following his tracks till now.

TEMPTER. Then it's the man lying beneath that brushwood there.

CONFESSOR (picking up some twigs, and disclosing a fully clothed corpse,

with a white, young face.) Yes, it is! (He grows pensive as he looks at

the dead man.)

TEMPTER. Who was he?

CONFESSOR. It's extraordinary!

TEMPTER. He must have been a good-looking man. And quite young.

CONFESSOR. Oh no. He was fifty-four. And when I saw him a week ago, he

looked like sixty-four. His eyes were as yellow as the slime of a garden

snail and bloodshot from drunkenness; but also because he'd shed tears

of blood over his vices and misery. His face was brown and swollen like

a piece of liver on a butcher's table, and he hid himself from men's

eyes out of shame--up to the end he seems to have been ashamed of the

broken mirror of his soul, for he covered his face with brushwood. I

saw him fighting his vices; I saw him praying to God on his knees for

deliverance, after he'd been dismissed from his post as a teacher....

But... Well, now he's been delivered. And look, now the evil's been

taken from him, the good and beautiful that was in him has again become

apparent; that's what he looked like when he was nineteen! (Pause.) This

is sin--imposed as a punishment. Why? That we don't know. 'He who

hateth the righteous, shall himself be guilty!' So it is written, as an

indication. I knew him when he was young! And now I remember... he

was always very angry with those who never drank. He criticised and

condemned, and always set his cult of the grape on the altar of earthly

joys! Now he's been set free. Free from sin, from shame, from ugliness.

Yes, in death he looks beautiful. Death is the deliverer! (To the

STRANGER.) Do you hear that, Deliverer, you who couldn't even free a

drunkard from his evil passions!

TEMPTER. Crime as punishment? That's not so bad. Most penetrating!

CONFESSOR. So I think. You'll have new matter for argument.

TEMPTER. Now I'll leave you gentlemen for a while. But soon we'll meet

again. (He goes out.)

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

temptations?

STRANGER. Not the kind you mean.

CONFESSOR. Then what kind?

STRANGER. I could still imagine a reconciliation between mankind and

woman--through woman herself! And indeed, through that woman who was my

wife and has now become what I once held her to be having been purified

and lifted up by sorrow and need. But...

CONFESSOR. But what?

STRANGER. Experience teaches; the nearer, the further off: the further

from one another, the nearer one can be.

CONFESSOR. I've always known that--it was known by Dante, who all his

life possessed the soul of Beatrice; and Beethoven, who was united from

afar with Therese von Brunswick, knew it, though she was the wife of

another!

STRANGER. And yet! Happiness is only to be found in her company.

CONFESSOR. Then stay with her.

STRANGER. You're forgetting one thing: we're divorced.

CONFESSOR. Good! Then you can begin a new marriage. And it'll promise

all the more, because both of you are new people.

STRANGER. Do you think anyone would marry us?

CONFESSOR. I, for instance? That's asking too much.

STRANGER. Yes. I'd forgotten! But I daresay someone could be found. It's

another thing to get a home together....

CONFESSOR. You're sometimes lucky, even if you won't see it. There's

a small house down there by the river; it's quite new and the owner's

never even seen it. He was an Englishman who wanted to marry; but at

the last moment _she_ broke off the engagement. It was built by his

secretary, and neither of the engaged couple ever set eyes on it. It's

quite intact, you see!

STRANGER. IS it to let?

CONFESSOR. Yes.

STRANGER. Then I'll risk it. And I'll try to begin life all over again.

CONFESSOR. Then you'll go down?

STRANGER. Out of the clouds. Below the sun's shining, and up here the

air's a little thin.

CONFESSOR. Good! Then we must part--for a time.

STRANGER. Where are you going?

CONFESSOR. Up.

STRANGER. And I down; to the earth, the mother with the soft bosom and

warm lap....

CONFESSOR. Until you long once more for what's hard as stone, as cold

and as white... Farewell! Greetings to those below!

(Each of them goes of in the direction he has chosen.)

Curtain.

SCENE III

A SMALL HOUSE ON THE MOUNTAIN

[A pleasant, panelled dining-room, with a tiled stove of majolica. On

the dining-table, which is in the middle of the room, stand vases filled

with flowers; also two candelabra with many lighted candles. A large

carved sideboard on the left. On the right, two windows. At the

back, two doors; that on the left is open and gives a view of the

drawing-room, belonging to the lady of the house, which is furnished in

light green and mahogany, and has a standard lamp of brass with a large,

lemon-coloured lampshade, which is lit. The door on the right is closed.

On the left behind the sideboard the entrance from the hall.]

[From the left the STRANGER enters, dressed as a bridegroom; and the

LADY, dressed as a bride; both radiant with youth and beauty.]

STRANGER. Welcome to my house, beloved; to your home and mine, my bride;

to your dwelling-place, my wife!

LADY. I'm grateful, dear friend! It's like a fairy tale!

STRANGER. Yes, it is. A whole book of fairy tales, my dear, written by

me.

(They sit down on either side of the table.)

LADY. Is this real? It seems too lovely to me.

STRANGER. I've never seen you look so young, so beautiful.

LADY. It's your own eyes....

STRANGER. Yes, my own eyes that have learnt to see. And your goodness

taught them....

LADY. Which itself was taught by sorrow.

STRANGER. Ingeborg!

LADY. It's the first time you've called me by that name.

STRANGER. The first? I've never met Ingeborg; I've never known you,

as you are, sitting here in our home! Home! An enchanting word. An

enchanting thing I've never yet possessed. A home and a wife! You are

my first, my only one; for what once happened exists no longer--no more

than the hour that's past!

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

in me!

STRANGER. Eurydice, whom I rescued from the underworld! I'll love you to

life again; revivify you with my imagination. Now happiness will come to

us, for we know the dangers to avoid.

LADY. The dangers, yes! It's lovely in this house. It seems as if these

rooms were full of invisible guests, who've come to welcome us. Kind

spirits, who'll bless us and our home.

STRANGER. The candle flames are still, as if in prayer. The flowers are

pensive.... And yet!

LADY. Hush! The summer night's outside, warm and dark. And stars hang

in the sky; large and tearful in the fir trees, like Christmas candles.

This is happiness. Hold it fast!

STRANGER (still thinking). And yet!

LADY. Hush!

STRANGER (getting up). A poem's coming: I can hear it. It's for you.

LADY. Don't tell it me. I can see it--in your eyes.

STRANGER. For I read it in yours! Well, I couldn't repeat it, because it

has no words. Only scent, and colour. If I were to, I should destroy it.

What's unborn is always most beautiful. What's unwon, most dear!

LADY. Quiet. Or, our guests will leave us.

(They do not speak.)

STRANGER. This _is_ happiness--but I can't grasp it.

LADY. See it and breath it; for it can't be grasped.

(They do not speak.)

STRANGER. You're looking at your little room.

LADY. It's as bright green as a summer meadow. There's someone in there.

Several people!

STRANGER. Only my thoughts.

LADY. Your good, your beautiful thoughts....

STRANGER. Given me by you.

LADY. Had I anything to give you?

STRANGER. You? Everything! But up to now my hands have not been free to

take it. Not clean enough to stroke your little heart....

LADY. Beloved! The time for reconciliation's coming.

STRANGER. With mankind, and woman--through a woman? Yes, that time has

come; and blessed may you be amongst women.

(The candles and lamps go out; it grows dark in the dining-room; but a

weak ray of light can be seen, coming from the brass standard lamp in

the LADY's room.)

LADY. Why's it grown dark? Oh!

STRANGER. Where are you, beloved? Give me your hand. I'm afraid!

LADY. Here, dearest.

STRANGER. The little hand, held out to me in the darkness, that's led me

over stones and thorns. That little, soft, dear hand! Lead me into the

light, into your bright, warm room; fresh green like hope.

LADY (leading him towards the pale-green room). Are you afraid?

STRANGER. You're a white dove, with whom the startled eagle finds

sanctuary, when heaven's thunder clouds grow black, for the dove has no

fear. She has not provoked the thunders of heaven!

(They have reached the doorway leading to the other room, when the

curtain falls.)

***

[The same room; but the table has been cleared. The LADY is sitting at

it, doing nothing. She seems bored. On the right, down stage, a window

is open. It is still. The STRANGER comes in, with a piece of paper in

his hand.]

STRANGER. Now you shall hear it.

LADY (acquiescing absent-mindedly). Finished already?

STRANGER. Already? Do you mean that seriously? I've taken seven days to

write this little poem. (Silence.) Perhaps it'll bore you to hear it?

LADY (drily). No. Certainly not. (The STRANGER sits down at the table

and looks at the LADY.) Why are you looking at me?

STRANGER. I'd like to see your thoughts.

LADY. But you've heard them.

STRANGER. That's nothing; I want to see them! (Pause.) What one says is

mostly worthless. (Pause.) May I read them? No, I see I mayn't. You want

nothing more from me. (The LADY makes a gesture as if she were going to

speak.) Your face tells me enough. Now you've sucked me dry, eaten

me hollow, killed my ego, my personality. To that I answer: how, my

beloved? Have _I_ killed your ego, when I wanted to give you the whole

of mine; when I let you skim the cream off my bowl, that I'd filled with

all the experience of along life, with incursions into the deserts and

groves of knowledge and art?

LADY. I don't deny it, but my ego wasn't my own.

STRANGER. Not yours? Then what is? Something that belongs to others?

LADY. Is yours something that belongs to others too?

STRANGER. No. What I've experienced is my own, mine and no other's. What

I've read becomes mine, because I've broken it in two like glass, melted

it down, and from this substance blown new glass in novel forms.

LADY. But I can never be yours.

STRANGER. I've become yours.

LADY. What have you got from me?

STRANGER. How can you ask me that?

LADY. All the same--I'm not sure that you think it, though I feel you

feel it--you wish me far away.

STRANGER. I must be a certain distance from you, if I'm to see you. Now

you're within the focus, and your image is unclear.

LADY. The nearer, the farther off!

STRANGER. Yes. When we part, we long for one another; and when we meet

again, we long to part.

LADY. Do you really think we love each other?

STRANGER. Yes. Not like ordinary people, but unusual ones. We resemble

two drops of water, that fear to get close together, in case they should

cease to be two and become one.

LADY. This time we knew the dangers and wanted to avoid them. But it

seems that they can't be avoided.

STRANGER. Perhaps they weren't dangers, but rude necessities; laws

inscribed in the councils of the immortals. (Silence.) Your love always

seemed to have the effect of hate. When you made me happy, you envied

the happiness you'd given me. And when you saw I was unhappy, you loved

me.

LADY. Do you want me to leave you?

STRANGER. If you do, I shall die.

LADY. And, if I stay, it's I who'll die.

STRANGER. Then let's die together and live out our love in a higher

life; our love, that doesn't seem to be of this world. Let's live it out

in another planet, where there's no nearness and no distance, where two

are one; where number, time and space are no longer what they are in

this.

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

already.

STRANGER. The air up here's too strong.

LADY. You can't love me if you speak like that.

STRANGER. To be frank, there are moments when you don't exist for me.

But in others I feel your hatred like suffocating smoke.

LADY. And I feel my heart creeping from my breast, when you are angry

with me.

STRANGER. Then we must hate one other.

LADY. And love one another too.

STRANGER. And hate because we love. We hate each other, because we're

bound together. We hate the bond, we hate our love; we hate what is most

loveable, what is the bitterest, the best this life can offer. We've

come to an end!

LADY. Yes.

STRANGER. What a joke life is, if you take it seriously. And how

serious, if you take it as a joke! You wanted to lead me by the hand

towards the light; your easier fate was to make mine easier too. I

wanted to raise you above the bogs and quicksands; but you longed for

the lower regions, and wanted to convince me they were the upper ones. I

ask myself if it's possible that you took what was wicked from me, when

I was freed from it; and that what was good in you entered into me? If

I've made you wicked I ask your pardon, and I kiss your little hand,

that caressed and scratched me... the little hand that led me into the

darkness... and on the long journey to Damascus....

LADY. To a parting? (Silence.) Yes, a parting!

(The LADY goes on her way. The STRANGER falls on to a chair by the

table. The TEMPTER puts his head in at the window, and rests himself on

his elbows whilst he smokes a cigarette.)

TEMPTER. Ah, yes! C'est l'amour! The most mysterious of all mysteries,

the most inexplicable of all that can't be explained, the most

precarious of all that's insecure.

STRANGER. So you're here?

TEMPTER. I'm always everywhere, where it smells of quarrels. And in love

affairs there are always quarrels.

STRANGER. Always?

TEMPTER. Always! I was invited to a silver wedding yesterday.

Twenty-five years are no trifle--and for twenty-five years they'd been

quarrelling. The whole love affair had been one long shindy, with

many little ones in between! And yet they loved one another, and were

grateful for all the good that had come to them; the evil was forgotten,

wiped out--for a moment's happiness is worth ten days of blows and

pinpricks. Oh yes! Those who won't accept evil never get anything good.

The rind's very bitter, though the kernel's sweet.

STRANGER. But very small.

TEMPTER. It may be small, but it's good! (Pause.) Tell me, why did your

madonna go her way? No answer; because he doesn't know! Now we'll have

to let the hotel again. Here's a board. I'll hang it out at once. 'To

Let.' One comes, another goes! C'est la vie, quoi? Rooms for Travellers!

STRANGER. Have you ever been married?

TEMPTER. Oh yes. Of course.

STRANGER. Then why did you part?

TEMPTER. Chiefly--perhaps it's a peculiarity of mine--chiefly

because--well, you know, a man marries to get a home, to get into a

home; and a woman to get out of one. She wanted to get out, and I wanted

to get in! I was so made that I couldn't take her into company, because

I felt as if she were soiled by men's glances. And in company, my

splendid, wonderful wife turned into a little grimacing monkey I

couldn't bear the sight of. So I stayed at home; and then, she stayed

away. And when I met her again, she'd changed into someone else. She,

my pure white notepaper, was scribbled all over; her clear and lovely

features changed in imitation of the satyr-like looks of strange men.

I could see miniature photographs of bull-fighters and guardsmen in her

eyes, and hear the strange accents of strange men in her voice. On our

grand piano, on which only the harmonies of the great masters used to be

heard, she now played the cabaret songs of strange men; and on our table

there lay nothing but the favourite reading of strange men. In a

word, my whole existence was on the way to becoming an intellectual

concubinage with strange men--and that was contrary to my nature, which

has always longed for women! And--I need hardly say this--the tastes of

these strange men were always the reverse of mine. She developed a real

genius for discovering things I detested! That's what she called 'saving

her personality.' Can you understand that?

STRANGER. I can; but I won't attempt to explain it.

TEMPTER. Yet this woman maintained she loved me, and that I didn't love

her. But I loved her so much I didn't want to speak to any other human

being; because I feared to be untrue to her if I found pleasure in

the company of others, even if they were men. I'd married for feminine

society; and in order to enjoy it I'd left my friends. I'd married in

order to find company, but what I got was complete solitude! And I was

supporting house and home, in order to provide strange men with feminine

companionship. _C'est l'amour_, my friend!

STRANGER. You should never talk about your wife.

TEMPTER. No! For if you speak well of her, people will laugh; and if you

speak ill, all their sympathy will go out to her; and if, in the first

instance, you ask why they laugh, you get no answer.

STRANGER. No. You can never find out who you've married. Never get hold

of her--it seems she's no one. Tell me--what is woman?

TEMPTER. I don't know! Perhaps a larva or a chrysalis, out of whose

trance-like life a man one day will be created. She seems a child, but

isn't one; she is a sort of child, and yet not like one. Drags downward,

when the man pulls up. Drags upward, when the man pulls down.

STRANGER. She always wants to disagree with her husband; always has a

lot of sympathy for what he dislikes; is crudest beneath the greatest

superficial refinement; the wickedest amongst the best. And yet,

whenever I've been in love, I've always grown more sensitive to the

refinements of civilisation.

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

STRANGER. Oh, whilst our love was growing _she_ was always developing

backwards. And getting cruder and more wicked.

TEMPTER. Can you explain that?

STRANGER. No. But once, when I was trying to find the solution to the

riddle by disagreeing with myself, I took it that she absorbed my evil

and I her good.

TEMPTER. Do you think woman's particularly false?

STRANGER. Yes and no. She seeks to hide her weakness but that only means

that she's ambitious and has a sense of shame. Only whores are honest,

and therefore cynical.

TEMPTER. Tell me some more about her that's good.

STRANGER. I once had a woman friend. She soon noticed that when I drank

I looked uglier than usual; so she begged me not to. I remember one

night we'd been talking in a cafe for many hours. When it was nearly ten

o'clock, she begged me to go home and not to drink any more. We parted,

after we'd said goodnight. A few days later I heard she'd left me only

to go to a large party, where she drank till morning. Well, I said, as

in those days I looked for all that was good in women, she meant well by

me, but had to pollute herself for business reasons.

TEMPTER. That's well thought out; and, as a view, can be defended. She

wanted to make you better than herself, higher and purer, so that she

could look up to you! But you can find an equally good explanation for

that. A wife's always angry and out of humour with her husband; and the

husband's always kind and grateful to his wife. He does all he can to

make things easy for her, and she does all she can to torture him.

STRANGER. That's not true. Of course it may sometimes appear to be so.

I once had a woman friend who shifted all the defects that she had on to

me. For instance, she was very much in love with herself, and therefore

called me the most egoistical of men. She drank, and called me a

drunkard; she rarely changed her linen and said I was dirty; she

was jealous, even of my men friends, and called me Othello. She was

masterful and called me Nero. Niggardly and called me Harpagon.

TEMPTER. Why didn't you answer her?

STRANGER. You know why very well! If I'd made clear to her what she

really was, I'd have lost her favour that moment--and it was precisely

her favour I wanted to keep.

TEMPTER. _A tout prix_! Yes, that's the source of degradation! You grow

accustomed to holding your tongue, and at last find yourself caught in a

tissue of falsehoods.

STRANGER. Wait! Don't you agree that married people so mix their

personalities that they can no longer distinguish between meum and tuum,

no longer remain separate from one another, or cannot tell their own

weaknesses from those of the other. My jealous friend, who called me

Othello, took me for herself, identified me with herself.

TEMPTER. That sounds conceivable.

STRANGER. You see! You can often explain most if you don't ask who's

to blame. For when married people begin to differ, it's like a realm

divided against itself, and that's the worst kind of disharmony.

TEMPTER. There are moments when I think a woman cannot love a man.

STRANGER. Perhaps not. To love is an active verb and woman's a passive

noun. He loves and she is loved; he asks questions and she merely

answers.

TEMPTER. Then what is woman's love?

STRANGER. The man's.

TEMPTER. Well said. And therefore when the man ceases to love her, she

severs herself from him!

STRANGER. And then?

TEMPTER. 'Sh! Someone's coming. Perhaps to take the house!

STRANGER. A woman or a man?

TEMPTER. A woman! And a man. But he's waiting outside. Now he's turned

and is going into the wood. Interesting!

STRANGER. Who is it?

TEMPTER. You can see for yourself.

STRANGER (looking out of the window). It's she! My first wife! My first

love!

TEMPTER. It seems she's left her second husband recently... and arrived

here with number three; who, if one can judge by certain movements of

his back and calves, is escaping from a stormy scene. Oh, well! But she

didn't notice his spiteful intentions. Very interesting! I'll go out and

listen.

(He disappears. The WOMAN knocks.)

STRANGER. Come in!

(The WOMAN comes in. There is a silence.)

WOMAN (excitedly). I only came here because the house was to let.

STRANGER. Oh!

WOMAN (slowly). Had I known who wanted to let it, I shouldn't have come.

STRANGER. What does it matter?

WOMAN. May I sit down a moment? I'm tired.

STRANGER. Please do. (They sit down at the table opposite one another,

in the seats occupied by the STRANGER and the LADY in the first scene.)

It's a long time since we've sat facing one another like this.

WOMAN. With flowers and lights on the table. One night...

STRANGER. When I was dressed as a bridegroom and you as a bride...

WOMAN. And the candle flames were still as in prayer and the flowers

pensive....

STRANGER. Is your husband outside?

WOMAN. No.

STRANGER. You're still seeking... what doesn't exist?

WOMAN. Doesn't it?

STRANGER. No. I always told you so, but you wouldn't believe me; you

wanted to find out for yourself. Have you found out now?

WOMAN. Not yet.

STRANGER. Why did you leave your husband? (The WOMAN doesn't reply.) Did

he beat you?

WOMAN. Yes.

STRANGER. How did he come to forget himself so far?

WOMAN. He was angry.

STRANGER. What about?

WOMAN. Nothing.

STRANGER. Why was he angry about nothing?

WOMAN (rising). No, thank you! I won't sit here and be picked to pieces.

Where's your wife?

STRANGER. She left me just now.

WOMAN. Why?

STRANGER. Why did you leave me?

WOMAN. I felt you wanted to leave me; so, not to be deserted, I went

myself.

STRANGER. I dare say that's true. But how could you read my thoughts?

WOMAN (sitting down again). What? We didn't need to speak in order to

know one another's thoughts.

STRANGER. We made a mistake when we were living together, because we

accused each other of wicked thoughts before they'd become actions; and

lived in mental reservations instead of realities. For instance, I

once noticed how you enjoyed the defiling gaze of a strange man, and I

accused you of unfaithfulness.

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

sinful.

STRANGER. Don't you think my habit of 'anticipating you' prevented your

bad designs from being put in practice?

WOMAN. Let me think! Yes, perhaps it did. But I was annoyed to find a

spy always at my side, watching my inmost self, that was my own.

STRANGER. But it wasn't your own: it was ours!

WOMAN. Yes, but I held it to be mine, and believed you'd no right

to force your way in. When you did so I hated you; I said you were

abnormally suspicious out of self-defence. Now I can admit that your

suspicions were never wrong; that they were, in fact, the purest wisdom.

STRANGER. Oh! Do you know that, at night, when we'd said good-night as

friends and gone to sleep, I used to wake and feel your hatred poisoning

me; and think of getting out of bed so as not to be suffocated. One

night I woke and felt a pressure on the top of my head. I saw you were

awake and had put your hand close to my mouth. I thought you were making

me inhale poison from a phial; and, to make sure, I seized your hand.

WOMAN. I remember.

STRANGER. What did you do then?

WOMAN. Nothing. Only hated you.

STRANGER. Why?

WOMAN. Because you were my husband. Because I ate your bread.

STRANGER. Do you think it's always the same?

WOMAN. I don't know. I suspect it is.

STRANGER. But sometimes you've even despised me?

WOMAN. Yes, when you were ridiculous. A man in love is always

ridiculous. Do you know what a cox-comb is? That's what a lover's like.

STRANGER. But if any man who loves you is ridiculous, how can you

respond to his love?

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

love us.

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

third?

WOMAN. Perhaps it's like that.

STRANGER. Very strange. (There is a silence.) I remember you were always

dreaming of someone you called your Toreador, which I translated by

'horse butcher.' You eventually got him, but he gave you no children,

and no bread; only beatings! A toreador's always fighting. (Silence.)

Once I let myself be tempted into trying to compete with the toreador.

I started to bicycle and fence and do other things of the kind. But you

only began to detest me for it. That means that the husband mayn't do

what the lover may. Later you had a passion for page boys. One of them

used to sit on the Brussels carpet and read you bad verses.... My good

ones were of no use to you. Did you get your page boy?

WOMAN. Yes. But his verses weren't bad, really.

STRANGER. Oh yes, they were, my dear. I know him! He stole my rhythms

and set them for the barrel organ.

WOMAN (rising and going to the door.) You should be ashamed of yourself.

(The TEMPTER conies in, holding a letter in his hand.)

TEMPTER. Here's a letter. It's for you. (The WOMAN takes it, reads it

and falls into a chair.) A farewell note! Oh, well! All beginnings

are hard--in love affairs. And those who lack the patience to surmount

initial difficulties--lose the golden fruit. Pages are always impatient.

Unknown youth, have you had enough?

STRANGER (rising and picking up his hat). My poor Anna!

WOMAN. Don't leave me.

STRANGER. I must.

WOMAN. Don't go. You were the best of them all.

TEMPTER. Do you want to begin again from the beginning? That would be

a sure way to make an end of this. For if lovers only find one another,

they lose one another! What is love? Say something witty, each one of

you, before we part.

WOMAN. I don't know what it is. The highest and the loveliest of things,

that has to sink to the lowest and the ugliest.

STRANGER. A caricature of godly love.

TEMPTER. An annual plant, that blossoms during the engagement, goes to

seed in marriage and then sinks to the earth to wither and die.

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

love.

STRANGER. And the lily that of innocence. That can form seeds, but only

opens her white cup to kisses.

TEMPTER. And propagates her kind with buds, out of which fresh lilies

spring, like chaste Minerva who sprang fully armed from the head of

Zeus, and not from his royal loins. Oh yes, children, I've understood

much, but never this: what the beloved of my soul has to do with.... (He

hesitates.)

STRANGER. Well, go on!

TEMPTER. What all-powerful love, that is the marriage of souls, has to

do with the propagation of the species!

STRANGER and WOMAN. Now he's come to the point!

TEMPTER. I've never been able to understand how a kiss, that's an

unborn word, a soundless speech, a quiet language of the soul, can be

exchanged, by means of a hallowed procedure, for a surgical operation,

that always ends in tears and the chattering of teeth. I've never

understood how that holy night, the first in which two souls embrace

each other in love, can end in the shedding of blood, in quarrelling,

hate, mutual contempt--and lint! (He holds his mouth shut.)

STRANGER. Suppose the story of the fall were true? In pain shalt thou

bring forth children.

TEMPTER. In that case one could understand.

WOMAN. Who is the man who says these things?

TEMPTER. Only a wanderer on the quicksands of this life. (The WOMAN

rises.) So you're ready to go. Who will go first?

STRANGER. I shall.

TEMPTER. Where?

STRANGER. Upwards. And you?

TEMPTER. I shall stay down here, in between....

Curtain.

ACT IV

SCENE I

CHAPTER HOUSE OF THE MONASTERY

[A Gothic chapter house. In the background arcades lead to the cloisters

and the courtyard of the monastery. In the middle of the courtyard there

is a well with a statue of the Virgin Mary, surrounded by long-stemmed

white roses. The walls of the chapter house are filled with built-in

choir stalls of oak. The PRIOR'S own stall is in the middle to the right

and rather higher than the rest. In the middle of the chapter house an

enormous crucifix. The sun is shining on the statue of the Virgin in

the courtyard. The STRANGER enters from the back. He is wearing a coarse

monkish cowl, with a rope round his waist and sandals on his feet. He

halts in the doorway and looks at the chapter house, then goes over to

the crucifix and stops in front of it. The last strophe of the choral

service can be heard from across the courtyard. The CONFESSOR enters

from the back; he is dressed in black and white; he has long hair and

along beard and a very small tonsure that can hardly be seen.]

CONFESSOR. Peace be with you!

STRANGER. And with you.

CONFESSOR. How do you like this white house?

STRANGER. I can only see blackness.

CONFESSOR. You still are black; but you'll grow white, quite white! Did

you sleep well last night?

STRANGER. Dreamlessly, like a tired child. But tell me: why do I find so

many locked doors?

CONFESSOR. You'll gradually learn to open them.

STRANGER. Is this a large building?

CONFESSOR. Endless! It dates from the time of Charlemagne and has

continually grown through pious benefactions. Untouched by the spiritual

upheavals and changes of different epochs, it stands on its rocky height

as a monument of Western culture. That is to say: Christian faith wedded

to the knowledge of Hellas and Rome.

STRANGER. So it's not merely a religious foundation?

CONFESSOR. No. It embraces all the arts and sciences as well. There's

a library, museum, observatory and laboratory--as you'll see later.

Agriculture and horticulture are also studied here; and a hospital for

laymen, with its own sulphur springs, is attached to the monastery.

STRANGER. One word more, before the chapter assembles. What kind of man

is the Prior?

CONFESSOR (smiling). He is the Prior! Aloof, without peer, dwelling on

the summits of human knowledge, and... well, you'll see him soon.

STRANGER. Is it true that he's so old?

CONFESSOR. He's reached an unusual age. He was born at the beginning of

the century that's now nearing its end.

STRANGER. Has he always been in the monastery?

CONFESSOR. No. He's not always been a monk, though always a priest. Once

he was a minister, but that was seventy years ago. Twice curator of the

university. Archbishop.... 'Sh! Mass is over.

STRANGER. I presume he's not the kind of unprejudiced priest who

pretends to have vices when he has none?

CONFESSOR. Not at all. But he's seen life and mankind, and he's more

human than priestly.

STRANGER. And the fathers?

CONFESSOR. Wise men, with strange histories, and none of them alike.

STRANGER. Who can never have known life as it's lived....

CONFESSOR. All have lived their lives, more than once; have suffered

shipwreck, started again, gone to pieces and risen once more. You must

wait.

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

agree to everything.

CONFESSOR. On the contrary, you must show yourself as you are; and

defend your opinions to the last.

STRANGER. Will contradiction be permitted here?

CONFESSOR. Here? You're a child, who's lived in a childish world, where

you've played with thoughts and words. You've lived in the erroneous

belief that language, a material thing, can be a vehicle for anything

so subtle as thoughts and feelings. We've discovered that error, and

therefore speak as little as possible; for we are aware of, and can

divine, the innermost thoughts of our neighbour. We've so developed

our perceptive faculties by spiritual exercises that we are linked in

a single chain; and can detect a feeling of pleasure and harmony,

when there's complete accord. The Prior, who has trained himself most

rigorously, can feel if anyone's thoughts have strayed into wrong paths.

In some respects he's like--merely like, I say--a telephone engineer's

galvanometer, that shows when and where a current has been interrupted.

Therefore we can have no secrets from one another, and so do not need

the confessional. Think of all this when you confront the searching eye

of the Prior!

STRANGER. Is there any intention of examining me?

CONFESSOR. Oh no. There are merely a few questions to answer without any

deep meaning, before the practical examinations. Quiet! Here they are.

(He goes to one side. The PRIOR enters from the back. He is dressed

entirely in white and he has pulled up his hood. He is a tall man with

long white hair and along white beard-his head is like that of Jupiter.

His face is pale, but full and without wrinkles. His eyes are large,

surrounded by shadows and his eyebrows strongly marked. A quiet,

majestic calm reigns over his whole personality. The PRIOR is followed

by twelve Fathers, dressed in black and white, with black hoods, also

pulled up. All bow to the crucifix and then go to their places.)

PRIOR (after looking at the STRANGER for a moment.) What do you seek

here? (The STRANGER is confused and tries to find an answer, but cannot.

The PRIOR goes on, calmly, firmly, but indulgently.) Peace? Isn't that

so? (The STRANGER makes a sign of assent with head and mouth.) But if

the whole of life is a struggle, how can you find peace amongst the

living? (The STRANGER is not able to answer.) Do you want to turn your

back on life because you feel you've been injured, cheated?

STRANGER (in a weak voice). Yes.

PRIOR. So you've been defrauded, unjustly dealt with? And this injustice

began so early that you, an innocent child, couldn't imagine you'd

committed any crime that was worthy of punishment. Well, once you were

unjustly accused of stealing fruit; tormented into taking the offence

on yourself; tortured into telling lies about yourself and forced to beg

forgiveness for a fault you'd not committed. Wasn't it so?

STRANGER (with certainty). Yes. It was.

PRIOR. It was; and you've never been able to forget it. Never. Now

listen, you've a good memory; can you remember _The Swiss Family

Robinson_?

STRANGER (shrinking). _The Swiss Family Robinson_?

PRIOR. Yes. Those events that caused you such mental torture happened in

1857, but at Christmas 1856, that is the year before, you tore a copy

of that book and out of fear of punishment hid it under a chest in the

kitchen. (The STRANGER is taken aback.) The wardrobe was painted in oak

graining, and clothes hung in its upper part, whilst shoes stood below.

This wardrobe seemed enormously big to you, for you were a small child,

and you couldn't imagine it could ever be moved; but during spring

cleaning at Easter what was hidden was brought to light. Fear drove you

to put the blame on a schoolfellow. And now he had to endure torture,

because appearances were against him, for you were thought to be

trustworthy. After this the history of your sorrows comes as a logical

sequence. You accept this logic?

STRANGER. Yes. Punish me!

PRIOR. No. I don't punish; when I was a child I did--similar things. But

will you now promise to forget this history of your own sufferings for

all time and never to recount it again?

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

me.

PRIOR. He has already. Isn't that so, Pater Isidor?

ISIDOR (who was the DOCTOR in the first part of 'The Road to Damascus,'

rising). With my whole heart!

STRANGER. It's you!

ISIDOR. Yes. I.

PRIOR (to FATHER ISIDOR). Pater Isidor, say a word, just one.

ISIDOR. It was in the year 1856 that I had to endure my torture. But

even in 1854 one of my brothers suffered in the same way, owing to a

false accusation on my part. (To the STRANGER.) So we're all guilty and

not one of us is without blemish; and I believe my victim had no clear

conscience either. (He sits down.)

PRIOR. If we could only stop accusing one another and particularly

Eternal Justice! But we're born in guilt and all resemble Adam! (To the

STRANGER.) There was something you wanted to know, was there not?

STRANGER. I wanted to know life's inmost meaning.

PRIOR. The very innermost! So you wanted to learn what no man's

permitted to know. Pater Uriel! (PATER URIEL, who is blind, rises. The

PRIOR speaks to the STRANGER.) Look at this blind father! We call him

Uriel in remembrance of Uriel Acosta, whom perhaps you've heard of? (The

STRANGER makes a sign that he has not.) You haven't? All young people

should have heard of him. Uriel Acosta was a Portuguese of Jewish

descent, who, however, was brought up in the Christian faith. When he

was still fairly young he began to inquire--you understand--to inquire

if Christ were really God; with the result that he went over to the

Jewish faith. And then he began research into the Mosaic writings and

the immortality of the soul, with the result that the Rabbis handed him

over to the Christian priesthood for punishment. A long time after

he returned to the Jewish faith. But his thirst for knowledge knew

no bounds, and he continued his researches till he found he'd reached

absolute nullity; and in despair that he couldn't learn the final secret

he took his own life with a pistol shot. (Pause.) Now look at our good

father Uriel here. He, too, was once very young and anxious to know; he

always wanted to be in the forefront of every modern movement, and he

discovered new philosophies. I may add, by the way, that he's a friend

of my boyhood and almost as old as I. Now about 1820 he came upon the

so-called rational philosophy, that had already lain in its grave for

twenty years. With this system of thought, which was supposed to be a

master key, all locks were to be picked, all questions answered and all

opponents confuted--everything was clear and simple. In those days Uriel

was a strong opponent of all religions and in particular followed the

Mesmerists, as the hypnotisers of that age were called. In 1830 our

friend became a Hegelian, though, to be sure, rather late in the day.

Then he re-discovered God, a God who was immanent in nature and in man,

and found he was a little god himself. Now, as ill-luck would have it,

there were two Hegels, just as there were two Voltaires; and the later,

or more conservative Hegel, had developed his All-godhead till it had

become a compromise with the Christian view. And so Father Uriel, who

never wanted to be behind the times, became a rationalistic Christian,

who was given the thankless task of combating Rationalism and himself.

(Pause.) I'll shorten the whole sad history for Father Uriel's sake. In

1850 he again became a materialist and an enemy of Christianity. In

1870 he became a hypnotist, in 1880 a theosophist, and 1890 he wanted to

shoot himself! I met him just at that time. He was sitting on a bench in

Unter den Linden in Berlin, and he was blind. This Uriel was blind--and

Uriel means 'God is my Light'--who for a century had marched with the

torch of liberalism at the head of _every_ modern movement! (To the

STRANGER.) You see, he wanted to know, but he failed! And therefore he

now believes. Is there anything else you'd like to know?

STRANGER. One thing only.

PRIOR. Speak.

STRANGER. If Father Uriel had held to his first faith in 1810, men would

have called him conservative or old-fashioned; but now, as he's followed

the developments of his time and has therefore discarded his youthful

faith, men will call him a renegade--that's to say: whatever he does

mankind will blame him.

PRIOR. Do you heed what men say? Father Clemens, may I tell him how

you heeded what men said? (PATER CLEMENS rises and makes a gesture of

assent.) Father Clemens is our greatest figure painter. In the world

outside he's known by another name, a very famous one. Father Clemens

was a young man in 1830. He felt he had a talent for painting and

gave himself up to it with his whole soul. When he was twenty he was

exhibiting. The public, the critics, his teachers, and his parents

were all of the opinion that he'd made a mistake in the choice of his

profession. Young Clemens heeded what men were saying, so he laid down

his brush and turned bookseller. When he was fifty years of age, and had

his life behind him, the paintings of his early years were discovered by

some stranger; and were then recognised as masterpieces by the public,

the critics, his teachers and relations! But it was too late. And when

Father Clemens complained of the wickedness of the world, the world

answered with a heartless grin: 'Why did you let yourself be taken

in?' Father Clemens grieved so much at this, that he came to us. But he

doesn't grieve any longer now. Or do you, Father Clemens?

CLEMENS. No! But that isn't the end of the story. The paintings I'd done

in 1830 were admired and hung in a museum till 1880. Taste then changed

very quickly, and one day an important newspaper announced that their

presence there was an outrage. So they were banished to the attic.

PRIOR (to the STRANGER). That's a good story!

CLEMENS. But it's still not finished. By 1890 taste had so changed again

that a professor of the History of Art wrote that it was a national

scandal that my works should be hanging in an attic. So the pictures

were brought down again, and, for the time being, are classical. But

for how long? From that you can see, young man, in what worldly fame

consists? Vanitas vanitatum vanitas!

STRANGER. Then is life worth living?

PRIOR. Ask Pater Melcher, who is experienced not only in the world of

deception and error, but also in that of lies and contradictions. Follow

him: he'll show you the picture gallery and tell you stories.

STRANGER. I'll gladly follow anyone who can teach me something.

(PATER MELCHER takes the STRANGER by the hand and leads him out of the

Chapter House.)

Curtain.

SCENE II

PICTURE GALLERY OF THE MONASTERY

[Picture Gallery of the Monastery. There are mostly portraits of people

with two heads.]

MELCHER. Well, first we have here a small landscape, by an unknown

master, called 'The Two Towers.' Perhaps you've been in Switzerland and

know the originals.

STRANGER. I've been in Switzerland!

MELCHER. Exactly. Then near the station of Amsteg on the Gotthard

railway you've seen a tower, called Zwing-Uri, sung of by Schiller

in his _Wilhelm Tell_. It stands there as a monument to the cruel

oppression which the inhabitants of Uri suffered at the hands of

the German Emperors. Good! On the Italian side of the Gotthard lies

Bellinzona, as you know. There are many towers to be seen there, but the

most curious is called Castel d'Uri. That's the monument recalling the

cruel oppression which the Italian cantons suffered at the hands of the

inhabitants of Uri! Now do you understand?

STRANGER. So freedom means: freedom to oppress others. That's new to me.

MELCHER. Then let's go on without further comment to the portrait

collection. Number one in the catalogue. Boccaccio, with two heads--all

our portraits have at least two heads. His story's well known. The great

man began his career by writing dissolute and godless tales, which

he dedicated to Queen Johanna of Naples, who'd seduced the son of St.

Brigitta. Boccaccio ended up as a saint in a monastery where he lectured

on Dante's Hell and the devils that, in his youth, he had thought to

drive out in a most original way. You'll notice now, how the two faces

are meeting each other's gaze!

STRANGER. Yes. But all trace of humour's lacking; and humour's to be

expected in a man who knew himself as well as our friend Boccaccio did.

MELCHER. Number two in the catalogue. Ah, yes; that's two-headed Doctor

Luther. The youthful champion of tolerance and the aged upholder of

intolerance. Have I said enough?

STRANGER. Quite enough.

MELCHER. Number three in the catalogue. The great Gustavus Adolphus

accepting Catholic funds from Cardinal Richelieu in order to fight for

Protestantism, whilst remaining neutral in the face of the Catholic

League.

STRANGER. How do Protestants explain this threefold contradiction?

MELCHER. They say it's not true. Number four in the catalogue. Schiller,

the author of The Robbers, who was offered the freedom of the City of

Paris by the leaders of the French Revolution in 1792; but who had been

made a State Councillor of Meiningen as early as 1790 and a royal Danish

Stipendiary in 1791. The scene depicts the State Councillor--and friend

of his Excellency Goethe--receiving the Diploma of Honour from the

leaders of the French Revolution as late as 1798. Think of it, the

diploma of the Reign of Terror in the year 1798, when the Revolution was

over and the country under the Directory! I'd have liked to have seen

the Councillor and his friend, His Excellency! But it didn't matter,

for two years later he repaid his nomination by writing the _Song of the

Bell_, in which he expressed his thanks and begged the revolutionaries

to keep quiet! Well, that's life. We're intelligent people and love _The

Robbers_ as much as _The Song of the Bell_; Schiller as much as Goethe!

STRANGER. The work remains, the master perishes.

MELCHER. Goethe, yes! Number five in the catalogue. He began with

Strassburg cathedral and _Goetz von Berlichingen_, two hurrahs for gothic

Germanic art against that of Greece and Rome. Later he fought against

Germanism and for Classicism. Goethe against Goethe! There you see the

traditional Olympic calm, harmony, etc., in the greatest disharmony

with itself. But depression at this turns into uneasiness when the

young Romantic school appears and combats the Goethe of _Iphigenia_ with

theories drawn from Goethe's _Goetz_. That the 'great heathen' ends up

by converting Faust in the Second Part, and allowing him to be saved by

the Virgin Mary and the angels, is usually passed over in silence by his

admirers. Also the fact that a man of such clear vision should, towards

the end of his life, have found everything so 'strange,' and 'curious,'

even the simplest facts that he'd previously seen through. His last

wish was for 'more light'! Yes; but it doesn't matter. We're intelligent

people and love our Goethe just the same.

STRANGER. And rightly.

MELCHER. Number six in the catalogue. Voltaire! He has more than two

heads. The Godless One, who spent his whole life defending God. The

Mocker, who was mocked, because 'he believed in God like a child.' The

author of the cynical 'Candide,' who wrote:

In my youth I sought the pleasures

Of the senses, but I learned

That their sweetness was illusion

Soon to bitterness it turned.

In old age I've come to see

Life is nought but vanity.

Dr. Knowall, who thought he could grasp everything between Heaven and

Earth by means of reason and science, sings like this, when he comes to

the end of his life:

I had thought to find in knowledge

Light to guide me on my way;

Yet I still must walk in darkness

All that's known must soon decay.

Ignorance, I turn to thee!

Knowledge is but vanity.

But that's no matter! Voltaire can be put to many uses. The Jews use

him against the Christians, and the Christians use him against the Jews,

because he was an anti-Semite, like Luther. Chateaubriand used him

to defend Catholicism, and Protestants use him even to-day to attack

Catholicism. He was a fine fellow!

STRANGER. Then what's your view?

MELCHER. We have no views here; we've faith, as I've told you already.

And that's why we've only one head--placed exactly above the heart.

(Pause.) In the meantime let's look at number seven in the catalogue.

Ah, Napoleon! The creation of the Revolution itself! The Emperor of the

People, the Nero of Freedom, the suppressor of Equality and the 'big

brother' of Fraternity. He's the most cunning of all the two-headed, for

he could laugh at himself, raise himself above his own contradictions,

change his skin and his soul, and yet be quite explicable to himself in

every transformation--convinced, self-authorised. There's only one other

man who can be compared with him in this; Kierkegaard the Dane. From

the beginning he was aware of this parthenogenesis of the soul, whose

capacity to multiply by taking cuttings was equivalent to bringing forth

young in this life without conception. And for that reason, and so as

not to become life's fool, he wrote under a number of pseudonyms, of

which each one constituted a 'stage on his life's way.' But did you

realise this? The Lord of life, in spite of all these precautions, made

a fool of him after all. Kierkegaard, who fought all his life against

the priesthood and the professional preachers of the State Church,

was eventually forced of necessity to become a professional preacher

himself! Oh yes! Such things do happen.

STRANGER. The Powers That Be play tricks....

MELCHER. The Powers play tricks on tricksters, and delude the arrogant,

particularly those who alone believe they possess truth and knowledge!

Number eight in the catalogue. Victor Hugo. He split himself into

countless parts. He was a peer of France, a Grandee of Spain, a friend

of Kings, and the socialist author of _Les Miserables_. The peers

naturally called him a renegade, and the socialists a reformer. Number

nine. Count Friedrich Leopold von Stollberg. He wrote a fanatical book

for the Protestants, and then suddenly became a Catholic! Inexplicable

in a sensible man. A miracle, eh? A little journey to Damascus,

perhaps? Number ten. Lafayette. The heroic upholder of freedom,

the revolutionary, who was forced to leave France as a suspected

reactionary, because he wanted to help Louis XVI; and then was captured

by the Austrians and carried off to Olmuetz as a revolutionary! What was

he in reality?

STRANGER. Both!

MELCHER. Yes, both. He had the two halves that made a whole--a whole

man. Number eleven. Bismarck. A paradox. The honest diplomat, who

maintained he'd discovered that to tell the truth was the greatest of

ruses. And so was compelled--by the Powers, I suppose?--to spend the

last six years of his life unmasking himself as a conscious liar. You're

tired. Then we'll stop now.

STRANGER. Yes, if one clings to the same ideas all one's life, and holds

the same opinions, one grows old according to nature's laws, and gets

called conservative, old-fashioned, out of date. But if one goes on

developing, keeping pace with one's own age, renewing oneself with the

perennially youthful impulses of contemporary thought, one's called a

waverer and a renegade.

MELCHER. That's as old as the world! But does an intelligent, man heed

what he's called? One is, what one's becoming.

STRANGER. But who revises the periodically changing views of

contemporary opinion?

MELCHER. You ought to answer that yourself, and indeed in this way. It

is the Powers themselves who promulgate contemporary opinion, as they

develop in _apparent_ circles. Hegel, the philosopher of the present,

himself dimorphous, for both a 'left'-minded and a 'right'-minded Hegel

can always be quoted, has best explained the contradictions of life,

of history and of the spirit, with his own magic formula. Thesis:

affirmation; Antithesis: negation; Synthesis: comprehension! Young

man, or rather, comparatively young man! You began life by accepting

everything, then went on to denying everything on principle. Now end

your life by comprehending everything. Be exclusive no longer. Do

not say: either--or, but: not only--but also! In a word, or two words

rather, Humanity and Resignation!

Curtain.

SCENE III

CHAPEL OF THE MONASTERY

[Choir of the Monastery Chapel. An open coffin with a bier cloth and two

burning candles. The CONFESSOR leads in the STRANGER by the hand. The

STRANGER is dressed in the white shirt of the novice.]

CONFESSOR. Have you carefully considered the step you wish to take?

STRANGER. Very carefully.

CONFESSOR. Have you no more questions?

STRANGER. Questions? No.

CONFESSOR. Then stay here, whilst I fetch the Chapter and the Fathers

and Brothers, so that the solemn act may begin.

STRANGER. Yes. Let it come to pass.

(The CONFESSOR goes out. The STRANGER, left alone, is sunk in thought.)

TEMPTER (coming forward). Are you ready?

STRANGER. So ready, that I've no answer left for you.

TEMPTER. On the brink of the grave, I understand! You'll have to lie in

your coffin and appear to die; the old Adam will be covered with three

shovelfuls of earth, and a De Profundis will be sung. Then you'll rise

again from the dead, having laid aside your old name, and be baptized

once more like a new-born child! What will you be called? (The STRANGER

does not reply.) It is written: Johannes, brother Johannes, because he

preached in the wilderness and...

STRANGER. Do not trouble me.

TEMPTER. Speak to me a little, before you depart into the long silence.

For you'll not be allowed to speak for a whole year.

STRANGER. All the better. Speaking at last becomes a vice, like

drinking. And why speak, if words do not cloak thoughts?

TEMPTER. _You_ at the graveside.... Was life so bitter?

STRANGER. Yes. My life was.

TEMPTER. Did you never know one pleasure?

STRANGER. Yes, many pleasures; but they were very brief and seemed only

to exist in order to make the pain of their loss the sharper.

TEMPTER. Can't it be put the other way round: that pain exists in order

to make joy more keen?

STRANGER. It can be put in any way.

(A woman enters with a child to be baptized.)

TEMPTER. Look! A little mortal, who's to be consecrated to suffering.

STRANGER. Poor child!

TEMPTER. A human history, that's about to begin. (A bridal couple cross

the stage.) And there--what's loveliest, and most bitter. Adam and Eve

in Paradise, that in a week will be a Hell, and in a fortnight Paradise

again.

STRANGER. What is loveliest, brightest! The first, the only, the last

that ever gave life meaning! I, too, once sat in the sunlight on a

verandah, in the spring beneath the first tree to show new green, and a

small crown crowned a head, and a white veil lay like thin morning mist

over a face... that was not that of a human being. Then came darkness!

TEMPTER. Whence?

STRANGER. From the light itself. I know no more.

TEMPTER. It could only have been a shadow, for light is needed to throw

shadows; but for darkness no light is needed.

STRANGER. Stop! Or we'll never come to an end.

(The CONFESSOR and the CHAPTER appear in procession.)

TEMPTER (disappearing). Farewell!

CONFESSOR (advancing with a large black bier-cloth). Lord! Grant him

eternal peace!

CHOIR. May he be illumined with perpetual light!

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

peace!

CHOIR. Amen!

Curtain.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Road to Damascus, by August Strindberg