hated you, Arnold--
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Warmly.] That you did not, Irene! That is not true!
IRENE.
I hated you, because you could stand there so unmoved--
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Laughs.] Unmoved? Do you think so?
IRENE. --at any rate so intolerably self-controlled. And because you
were an artist and an artist only--not a man! [Changing to a tone full
of warmth and feeling.] But that statue in the wet, living clay, that
I loved--as it rose up, a vital human creature, out of those raw,
shapeless masses--for that was our creation, our child. Mine and yours.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Sadly.] It was so in spirit and in truth.
IRENE.
Let me tell you, Arnold--it is for the sake of this child of ours that I
have undertaken this long pilgrimage.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Suddenly alert.] For the statue's--?
IRENE.
Call it what you will. I call it our child.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
And now you want to see it? Finished? In marble, which you always
thought so cold? [Eagerly.] You do not know, perhaps, that it is
installed in a great museum somewhere--far out in the world?
IRENE.
I have heard a sort of legend about it.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
And museums were always a horror to you. You called them grave-vaults--
IRENE.
I will make a pilgrimage to the place where my soul and my child's soul
lie buried.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Uneasy and alarmed.] You must never see that statue again! Do you hear,
Irene! I implore you--! Never, never see it again!
IRENE.
Perhaps you think it would mean death to me a second time?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Clenching his hands together.] Oh, I don't know what I think.--But how
could I ever imagine that you would fix your mind so immovably on that
statue? You, who went away from me--before it was completed.
IRENE.
It was completed. That was why I could go away from you--and leave you
alone.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Sits with his elbows upon his knees, rocking his head from side to
side, with his hands before his eyes.] It was not what it afterwards
became.
IRENE.
[Quietly but quick as lightning, half-unsheathes a narrow-bladed sharp
knife which she carried in her breast, and asks in a hoarse whisper.]
Arnold--have you done any evil to our child?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Evasively.] Any evil?--How can I be sure what you would call it?
IRENE.
[Breathless.] Tell me at once: what have you done to the child?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
I will tell you, if you will sit and listen quietly to what I say.
IRENE.
[Hides the knife.] I will listen as quietly as a mother can when she--
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Interrupting.] And you must not look at me while I am telling you.
IRENE.
[Moves to a stone behind his back.] I will sit here, behind you.--Now
tell me.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Takes his hands from before his eyes and gazes straight in front of
him. When I had found you, I knew at once how I should make use of you
for my life-work.
IRENE.
"The Resurrection Day" you called your life-work.--I call it "our
child."
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
I was young then--with no knowledge of life. The Resurrection, I
thought, would be most beautifully and exquisitely figured as a young
unsullied woman--with none of our earth-life's experiences--awakening
to light and glory without having to put away from her anything ugly and
impure.
IRENE.
[Quickly.] Yes--and so I stand there now, in our work?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Hesitating.] Not absolutely and entirely so, Irene.
IRENE.
[In rising excitement.] Not absolutely--? Do I not stand as I always
stood for you?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Without answering.] I learned worldly wisdom in the years that
followed, Irene. "The Resurrection Day" became in my mind's eye
something more and something--something more complex. The little round
plinth on which your figure stood erect and solitary--it no longer
afforded room for all the imagery I now wanted to add--
IRENE.
[Groped for her knife, but desists.] What imagery did you add then? Tell
me!
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
I imagined that which I saw with my eyes around me in the world. I had
to include it--I could not help it, Irene. I expanded the plinth--made
it wide and spacious. And on it I placed a segment of the curving,
bursting earth. And up from the fissures of the soil there now swarm men
and women with dimly-suggested animal-faces. Women and men--as I knew
them in real life.
IRENE.
[In breathless suspense.] But in the middle of the rout there stands the
young woman radiant with the joy of light?--Do I not stand so, Arnold?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Evasively.] Not quite in the middle. I had unfortunately to move
that figure a little back. For the sake of the general effect, you
understand. Otherwise it would have dominated the whole too much.
IRENE.
But the joy in the light still transfigures my face?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Yes, it does, Irene--in a way. A little subdued perhaps--as my altered
idea required.
IRENE.
[Rising noiselessly.] That design expresses the life you now see,
Arnold.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Yes, I suppose it does.
IRENE.
And in that design you have shifted me back, a little toned down--to
serve as a background-figure--in a group.
[She draws the knife.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Not a background-figure. Let us say, at most, a figure not quite in the
foreground--or something of that sort.
IRENE.
[Whispers hoarsely.] There you uttered your own doom.
[On the point of striking.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Turns and looks up at her.] Doom?
IRENE.
[Hastily hides the knife, and says as though choked with agony.] My
whole soul--you and I--we, we, we and our child were in that solitary
figure.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Eagerly, taking off his hat and drying the drops of sweat upon his
brow.] Yes, but let me tell you, too, how I have placed myself in the
group. In front, beside a fountain--as it were here--sits a man weighed
down with guilt, who cannot quite free himself from the earth-crust.
I call him remorse for a forfeited life. He sits there and dips his
fingers in the purling stream--to wash them clean--and he is gnawed and
tortured by the thought that never, never will he succeed. Never in all
eternity will he attain to freedom and the new life. He will remain for
ever prisoned in his hell.
IRENE.
[Hardly and coldly.] Poet!
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Why poet?
IRENE.
Because you are nerveless and sluggish and full of forgiveness for
all the sins of your life, in thought and in act. You have killed
my soul--so you model yourself in remorse, and self-accusation, and
penance--[Smiling.] --and with that you think your account is cleared.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Defiantly.] I am an artist, Irene. And I take no shame to myself for
the frailties that perhaps cling to me. For I was born to be an artist,
you see. And, do what I may, I shall never be anything else.
IRENE.
[Looks at him with a lurking evil smile, and says gently and softly.]
You are a poet, Arnold. [Softly strokes his hair.] You dear, great,
middle-aged child,--is it possible that you cannot see that!
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Annoyed.] Why do you keep on calling me a poet?
IRENE.
[With malign eyes.] Because there is something apologetic in the word,
my friend. Something that suggests forgiveness of sins--and spreads
a cloak over all frailty. [With a sudden change of tone.] But I was a
human being--then! And I, too, had a life to live,--and a human destiny
to fulfil. And all that, look you, I let slip--gave it all up in order
to make myself your bondwoman.--Oh, it was self-murder--a deadly sin
against myself! [Half whispering.] And that sin I can never expiate!
[She seats herself near him beside the brook, keeps close, though
unnoticed, watch upon him, and, as though in absence of mind,
plucks some flowers form the shrubs around them.
IRENE.
[With apparent self-control.] I should have borne children in the
world--many children--real children--not such children as are hidden
away in grave-vaults. That was my vocation. I ought never to have served
you--poet.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Lost in recollection.] Yet those were beautiful days, Irene.
Marvellously beautiful days--as I now look back upon them--
IRENE.
[Looking at him with a soft expression.] Can you remember a little word
that you said--when you had finished--finished with me and with our
child? [Nods to him.] Can you remember that little word, Arnold?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Looks inquiringly at her.] Did I say a little word then, which you
still remember?
IRENE.
Yes, you did. Can you not recall it?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Shaking his head.] No, I can't say that I do. Not at the present
moment, at any rate.
IRENE.
You took both my hands and pressed them warmly. And I stood there in
breathless expectation. And then you said: "So now, Irene, I thank you
from my heart. This," you said, "has been a priceless episode for me."
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Looks doubtfully at her.] Did I say "episode"? It is not a word I am in
the habit of using.
IRENE.
You said "episode."
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[With assumed cheerfulness.] Well, well--after all, it was in reality an
episode.
IRENE.
[Curtly.] At that word I left you.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
You take everything so painfully to heart, Irene.
IRENE.
[Drawing her hand over her forehead.] Perhaps you are right. Let us
shake off all the hard things that go to the heart. [Plucks off the
leaves of a mountain rose and strews them on the brook.] Look there,
Arnold. There are our birds swimming.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
What birds are they?
IRENE.
Can you not see? Of course they are flamingoes. Are they not rose-red?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Flamingoes do not swim. They only wade.
IRENE.
Then they are not flamingoes. They are sea-gulls.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
They may be sea-gulls with red bills, yes. [Plucks broad green leaves
and throws them into the brook.] Now I send out my ships after them.
IRENE.
But there must be no harpoon-men on board.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
No, there shall be no harpoon-men. [Smiles to her.] Can you remember the
summer when we used to sit like this outside the little peasant hut on
the Lake of Taunitz?
IRENE.
[Nods.] On Saturday evenings, yes,--when we had finished our week's
work--
PROFESSOR RUBEK. --And taken the train out to the lake--to stay there
over Sunday--
IRENE.
[With an evil gleam of hatred in her eyes.] It was an episode, Arnold.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[As if not hearing.] Then, too, you used to set birds swimming in the
brook. They were water-lilies which you--
IRENE.
They were white swans.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
I meant swans, yes. And I remember that I fastened a great furry leaf to
one of the swans. It looked like a burdock-leaf--
IRENE.
And then it turned into Lohengrin's boat--with the swan yoked to it.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
How fond you were of that game, Irene.
IRENE.
We played it over and over again.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Every single Saturday, I believe,--all the summer through.
IRENE.
You said I was the swan that drew your boat.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Did I say so? Yes, I daresay I did. [Absorbed in the game.] Just see how
the sea-gulls are swimming down the stream!
IRENE.
[Laughing.] And all your ships have run ashore.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Throwing more leaves into the brook.] I have ships enough in reserve.
[Follows the leaves with his eyes, throws more into the brook, and says
after a pause.] Irene,--I have bought the little peasant hut beside the
Lake of Taunitz.
IRENE.
Have you bought it? You often said you would, if you could afford it.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
The day came when I could afford it easily enough; and so I bought it.
IRENE.
[With a sidelong look at him.] Then do you live out there now--in our
old house?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
No, I have had it pulled down long ago. And I have built myself a great,
handsome, comfortable villa on the site--with a park around it. It is
there that we-- [Stops and corrects himself.] --there that I usually
live during the summer.
IRENE.
[Mastering herself.] So you and--and the other one live out there now?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[With a touch of defiance.] Yes. When my wife and I are not
travelling--as we are this year.
IRENE.
[Looking far before her.] Life was beautiful, beautiful by the Lake of
Taunitz.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[As though looking back into himself.] And yet, Irene--
IRENE.
[Completing his thought.] --yet we two let slip all that life and its
beauty.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Softly, urgently.] Does repentance come too late, now?
IRENE.
[Does not answer, but sits silent for a moment; then she points over
the upland.] Look there, Arnold,--now the sun is going down behind the
peaks. See what a red glow the level rays cast over all the heathery
knolls out yonder.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Looks where she is pointing.] It is long since I have seen a sunset in
the mountains.
IRENE.
Or a sunrise?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
A sunrise I don't think I have ever seen.
IRENE.
[Smiles as though lost in recollection.] I once saw a marvellously
lovely sunrise.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Did you? Where was that?
IRENE.
High, high up on a dizzy mountain-top.--You beguiled me up there by
promising that I should see all the glory of the world if only I--
[She stops suddenly.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
If only you--? Well?
IRENE.
I did as you told me--went with you up to the heights. And there I
fell upon my knees and worshipped you, and served you. [Is silent for a
moment; then says softly.] Then I saw the sunrise.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Turning at him with a scornful smile.] With you--and the other woman?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Urgently.] With me--as in our days of creation. You could open all that
is locked up in me. Can you not find it in your heart, Irene?
IRENE.
[Shaking her head.] I have no longer the key to you, Arnold.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
You have the key! You and you alone possess it! [Beseechingly.] Help
me--that I may be able to live my life over again!
IRENE.
[Immovable as before.] Empty dreams! Idle--dead dreams. For the life you
and I led there is no resurrection.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Curtly, breaking off.] Then let us go on playing.
IRENE.
Yes, playing, playing--only playing!
[They sit and strew leaves and petals over the brook, where they
float and sail away.
[Up the slope to the left at the back come ULFHEIM and MAIA in
hunting costume. After them comes the SERVANT with the leash
of dogs, with which he goes out to the right.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Catching sight of them.] Ah! There is little Maia, going out with the
bear-hunter.
IRENE.
Your lady, yes.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Or the other's.
MAIA.
[Looks around as she is crossing the upland, sees the two sitting by
the brook, and calls out.] Good-night, Professor! Dream of me. Now I am
going off on my adventures!
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Calls back to her.] What sort of an adventure is this to be?
MAIA.
[Approaching.] I am going to let life take the place of all the rest.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Mockingly.] Aha! So you too are going to do that, little Maia?
MAIA.
Yes. And I've made a verse about it, and this is how it goes:
[Sings triumphantly.]
I am free! I am free! I am free!
No more life in the prison for me!
I am free as a bird! I am free!
For I believe I have awakened now--at last.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
It almost seems so.
MAIA.
[Drawing a deep breath.] Oh--how divinely light one feels on waking!
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Good-night, Frau Maia--and good luck to--
ULFHEIM.
[Calls out, interposing.] Hush, hush!--for the devil's sake let's have
none of your wizard wishes. Don't you see that we are going out to
shoot--
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
What will you bring me home from the hunting, Maia?
MAIA.
You shall have a bird of prey to model. I shall wing one for you.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Laughs mockingly and bitterly.] Yes, to wing things--without knowing
what you are doing--that has long been quite in your way.
MAIA.
[Tossing her head.] Oh, just let me take care of myself for the future,
and I wish you then--! [Nods and laughs roguishly.] Good-bye--and a
good, peaceful summer night on the upland!
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Jestingly.] Thanks! And all the ill-luck in the world over you and your
hunting!
ULFHEIM.
[Roaring with laughter.] There now, that is a wish worth having!
MAIA.
[Laughing.] Thanks, thanks, thanks, Professor!
[They have both crossed the visible portion of the upland, and go
out through the bushes to the right.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[After a short pause.] A summer night on the upland! Yes, that would
have been life!
IRENE.
[Suddenly, with a wild expression in her eyes.] Will you spend a summer
night on the upland--with me?
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Stretching his arms wide.] Yes, yes,--come!
IRENE.
My adored lord and master!
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
Oh, Irene!
IRENE.
[Hoarsely, smiling and groping in her breast.] It will be only an
episode-- [Quickly, whispering.] Hush!--do not look round, Arnold!
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Also in a low voice.] What is it?
IRENE.
A face that is staring at me.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Turns involuntarily.] Where! [With a start.] Ah--!
[The SISTER OF MERCY's head is partly visible among the bushes
beside the descent to the left. Her eyes are immovably fixed
on IRENE.
IRENE.
[Rises and says softly.] We must part then. No, you must remain sitting.
Do you hear? You must not go with me. [Bends over him and whispers.]
Till we meet again--to-night--on the upland.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
And you will come, Irene?
IRENE.
Yes, surely I will come. Wait for me here.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Repeats dreamily.] Summer night on the upland. With you. With you. [His
eyes meet hers.] Oh, Irene--that might have been our life.--And that we
have forfeited--we two.
IRENE.
We see the irretrievable only when--
[Breaks off.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Looks inquiringly at her.] When--?
IRENE.
When we dead awaken.
PROFESSOR RUBEK.
[Shakes his head mournfully.] What do we really see then?
IRENE.
We see that we have never lived.
[She goes towards the slope and descends.
[The SISTER OF MERCY makes way for her and follows her.
PROFESSOR RUBEK remains sitting motionless beside the brook.
MAIA.
[Is heard singing triumphantly among the hills.]
I am free! I am free! I am free!
No more life in the prison for me!
I am free as a bird! I am free!
ACT THIRD.
[A wild riven mountain-side, with sheer precipices at the back.
Snow-clad peaks rise to the right, and lose themselves in drifting
mists. To the left, on a stone-scree, stands an old, half-ruined
hut. It is early morning. Dawn is breaking. The sun has not
yet risen.
[MAIA comes, flushed and irritated, down over the stone-scree on the
left. ULFHEIM follows, half angry, half laughing, holding her
fast by the sleeve.
MAIA.
[Trying to tear herself loose.] Let me go! Let me go, I say!
ULFHEIM.
Come, Come! are you going to bite now? You're as snappish as a wolf.
MAIA.
[Striking him over the hand.] Let me, I tell you? And be quiet!
ULFHEIM.
No, confound me if I will!
MAIA.
Then I will not go another step with you. Do you hear?--not a single
step!
ULFHEIM.
Ho, ho! How can you get away from me, here, on the wild mountain-side?
MAIA.
I will jump over the precipice yonder, if need be--
ULFHEIM.
And mangle and mash yourself up into dogs'-meat! A juicy morsel! [Lets
go his hold.] As you please. Jump over the precipice if you want to.
It's a dizzy drop. There's only one narrow footpath down it, and that's
almost impassable.
MAIA.
[Dusts her skirt with her hand, and looks at him with angry eyes.] Well,
you are a nice one to go hunting with!
ULFHEIM.
Say rather, sporting.
MAIA.
Oh! So you call this sport, do you?
ULFHEIM.
Yes, I venture to take that liberty. It is the sort of sport I like best
of all.
MAIA.
[Tossing her head.] Well--I must say! [After a pause; looks searchingly
at him.] Why did you let the dogs loose up there?
ULFHEIM.
[Blinking his eyes and smiling.] So that they too might do a little
hunting on their own account, don't you see?
MAIA.
There's not a word of truth in that! It wasn't for the dogs' sake that
you let them go.
ULFHEIM.
[Still smiling.] Well, why did I let them go then? Let us hear.
MAIA.
You let them go because you wanted to get rid of Lars. He was to run
after them and bring them in again, you said. And in the meant-time--.
Oh, it was a pretty way to behave!
ULFHEIM.
In the meantime?
MAIA.
[Curtly breaking off.] No matter!
ULFHEIM.
[In a confidential tone.] Lars won't find them. You may safely swear to
that. He won't come with them before the time's up.
MAIA.
[Looking angrily at him.] No, I daresay not.
ULFHEIM.
[Catching at her arm.] For Lars--he knows my--my methods of sport, you
see.
MAIA.
[Eludes him, and measures him with a glance.] Do you know what you look
like, Mr. Ulfheim?
ULFHEIM.
I should think I'm probably most like myself.
MAIA.
Yes, there you're exactly right. For you're the living image of a faun.
ULFHEIM.
A faun?
MAIA.
Yes, precisely; a faun.
ULFHEIM.
A faun! Isn't that a sort of monster? Or a kind of a wood demon, as you
might call it?
MAIA.
Yes, just the sort of creature you are. A thing with a goat's beard and
goat-legs. Yes, and the faun has horns too!
ULFHEIM.
So, so!--has he horns too?
MAIA.
A pair of ugly horns, just like yours, yes.
ULFHEIM.
Can you see the poor little horns _I_ have?
MAIA.
Yes, I seem to see them quite plainly.
ULFHEIM.
[Taking the dogs' leash out of his pocket.] Then I had better see about
tying you.
MAIA.
Have you gone quite mad? Would you tie me?
ULFHEIM.
If I am a demon, let me be a demon! So that's the way of it! You can see
the horns, can you?
MAIA.
[Soothingly.] There, there, there! Now try to behave nicely, Mr.
Ulfheim. [Breaking off.] But what has become of that hunting-castle
of yours, that you boasted so much of? You said it lay somewhere
hereabouts.
ULFHEIM.
[Points with a flourish to the hut.] There you have it, before your very
eyes.
MAIA.
[Looks at him.] That old pig-stye!
ULFHEIM.
[Laughing in his beard.] It has harboured more than one king's daughter,
I can tell you.
MAIA.
Was it there that that horrid man you told me about came to the king's
daughter in the form of a bear?
ULFHEIM.
Yes, my fair companion of the chase--this is the scene. [With a gesture
of invitation.] If you would deign to enter--
MAIA.
Isch! If ever I set foot in it--! Isch!
ULFHEIM.
Oh, two people can doze away a summer night in there comfortably enough.
Or a whole summer, if it comes to that!
MAIA.
Thanks! One would need to have a pretty strong taste for that kind of
thing. [Impatiently.] But now I am tired both of you and the hunting
expedition. Now I am going down to the hotel--before people awaken down
there.
ULFHEIM.
How do you propose to get down from here?
MAIA.
That's your affair. There must be a way down somewhere or other, I
suppose.
ULFHEIM.
[Pointing towards the back.] Oh, certainly! There is a sort of
way--right down the face of the precipice yonder--
MAIA.
There, you see. With a little goodwill--
ULFHEIM. --but just you try if you dare go that way.
MAIA.
[Doubtfully.] Do you think I can't?
ULFHEIM.
Never in this world--if you don't let me help you.
MAIA.
[Uneasily.] Why, then come and help me! What else are you here for?
ULFHEIM.
Would you rather I should take you on my back--?
MAIA.
Nonsense!
ULFHEIM. --or carry you in my arms?
MAIA.
Now do stop talking that rubbish!
ULFHEIM.
[With suppressed exasperation.] I once took a young girl--lifted her up
from the mire of the streets and carried her in my arms. Next my heart I
carried her. So I would have borne her all through life--lest haply she
should dash her foot against a stone. For her shoes were worn very thin
when I found her--
MAIA.
And yet you took her up and carried her next your heart?
ULFHEIM.
Took her up out of the gutter and carried her as high and as carefully
as I could. [With a growling laugh.] And do you know what I got for my
reward?
MAIA.
No. What did you get?
ULFHEIM.
[Looks at her, smiles and nods.] I got the horns! The horns that you can
see so plainly. Is not that a comical story, madam bear-murderess?
MAIA.
Oh yes, comical enough! But I know another story that is still more
comical.
ULFHEIM.
How does that story go?
MAIA.
This is how it goes. There was once a stupid girl, who had both a father
and a mother--but a rather poverty-stricken home. Then there came a high
and mighty seigneur into the midst of all this poverty. And he took the
girl in his arms--as you did--and travelled far, far away with her--
ULFHEIM.
Was she so anxious to be with him?
MAIA.
Yes, for she was stupid, you see.
ULFHEIM.
And he, no doubt, was a brilliant and beautiful personage?
MAIA.
Oh, no, he wasn't so superlatively beautiful either. But he pretended
that he would take her with him to the top of the highest of mountains,
where there were light and sunshine without end.
ULFHEIM.
So he was a mountaineer, was he, that man?
MAIA.
Yes, he was--in his way.
ULFHEIM.