[_The scene is a large, square room of poverty-stricken, dilapidated
appearance, with walls, floor, and ceiling dark in colour, and the back
wall broken only by two lofty, curtainless windows through which the
outer night shows darkly. Between the windows is a door leading out
into the garden. The general effect of the room gives the beholder the
impression that, however brilliantly it were lighted, the great, dark
expanses of window-pane would still absorb the major portion of the
light. To the left is a second door, giving entry to other portions
of the Man's mansion. Near this second door there stands a sofa,
upholstered in coarse horsehair, while beneath one of the windows
there can be seen the Man's working-table--a perfectly plain piece of
furniture. Upon it are mingled in careless confusion a dimly burning
candle, a shaded lamp, a faded sketch-plan, and three child's
toys--namely, a small pasteboard helmet, a wooden horse without a tail,
and a red-nosed clown doll, holding cymbals in its hands. To the right
is an old bookcase--empty, and almost falling to pieces, but showing, by
the lines left in the dust with which its shelves are covered, that the
books which it formerly contained have not long been removed. The room
contains a single chair._
[_In one corner, darker than the rest of the scene, there stands the
Being in Grey. The candle in his hand is now reduced to a stump, and
even from this the wax is fast running down as it burns with a red,
unsteady light and throws gleams of a ruddy hue over the stony face
and chin of the Being._ [_Seated on the solitary chair which the room
contains, and talking to herself, is discovered an old woman--the last
remaining servant of the Man._]
~The Old Woman.~~
So once again the Man has sunk to poverty! Once upon a time he had many
valuable possessions--horses, carriages, even a motor-car; but now he
has nothing at all. Of his many servants I am the only one left. True,
this room and two others still contain an odd piece or two of furniture,
but in the other fifteen apartments there is nothing whatever; they
stand dark and empty, and day and night the rats scamper and squeak in
them. _Some_ people might be afraid of the rats, but I am not. Nothing
matters much to me.
For a long while now there has been a notice-board hanging on the
entrance-gates, to say that the mansion is for sale; but no one seems to
care to be a purchaser. The board has grown rusty with the rain, and the
letters on it are fast being washed out, but no customer ever appears.
_Who_ would want to buy a house in such repair? Still, some day some one
_might_ do so, and then we shall be turned out of doors, I suppose, and
have to seek another place in which to lay our heads. At first it will
seem strange to us, but we shall soon get used to it. Sometimes my
mistress weeps, and my master too, but _I_ never weep. Nothing matters
much to me.
Are you wondering what has become of all the Man's wealth? Nay, I do not
know. Sometimes I too wonder, but I have lived a long life in service,
and have seen more than one great fortune slip away into chinks and
clefts, and vanish quietly. So it has been with my master and mistress.
At first they had much, then little, then nothing at all. Once upon a
time patrons and customers used to come and give my master commissions.
Now they have ceased to come. That is all. One day I asked my mistress
why things were so, and she replied: "What used to be fashionable is not
so now. People no longer care for the styles in architecture which they
used to affect."
"But what has made the fashions change?" said I. She made no answer, but
burst into tears. _I_ shed no tears. Nothing matters much to me, nothing
matters much to me. So long as they pay me my wages I shall stop with
them, and as soon as they cease paying those wages I shall go and take
service elsewhere. For many years I have done their cooking for them,
but I should leave them at once, and go and cook for some one else,
if my wages were to cease. In any case I shall soon have to give up
working, for I am growing old, and my sight is not what it was. Some
day, perhaps, I shall be dismissed--yes, told to go about my business
and make room for some one else. Ah, well, what will it matter? I shall
just go--that is all. Nothing matters much to me.
Sometimes people are surprised at me. "It must be lonely for you," they
say, "in that kitchen--alone every evening while the wind howls in the
chimney, and the rats scamper and squeak." I do not know. Perhaps it
_is_ lonely, only I never think of it. Why should I? My master and
mistress sit alone, the same as I do, and look at one another, and
listen to the wind; and I sit in my kitchen and listen to the wind also.
Once upon a time young folks used to come and visit my master's little
son; and then there would be such singing and laughter and scampering
about the empty rooms to scare the rats! Yet no one ever came to see
_me_. No, I sat alone as I am sitting now--alone, quite alone: and since
I have no one to talk to I talk to myself. Nothing matters much to me.
Three days ago yet another misfortune came upon this house. The young
master brushed his hair, and cocked his hat as young gentlemen will do,
and went out for a walk. And some rascally villain picked up a stone,
and threw it at him, and split the boy's head like a cocoa-nut. Well,
he was lifted up, and brought home, and now lies upon his bed--though
whether to live or to die the good God alone knows. My old master and
mistress wept so bitterly over him! Then they took all the books out of
that bookcase yonder, and piled them upon a cart, and sent them away
to be sold: and with the money they have hired a nurse, and bought
medicines and grapes for the boy. But he will not touch the grapes, nor
look at them, and they lie unheeded on a plate by his bedside.
[_Enter a Doctor, looking worried and fatigued._]
~The Doctor.~~
Old woman, can you tell me if I have come to the right house? I am a
doctor with a large practice, and many patients to visit, so that I
sometimes make mistakes. First I am called to one house, and then to
another--only to find that the first house is empty, and the second one
inhabited by a colony of idiots! Have I come to the right place _this_
time?
~The Old Woman.~~
I do not know.
~The Doctor.~~
Well, I will consult my memorandum-book. Have you a child with the croup
and a sore throat?
~The Old Woman.~~
No.
~The Doctor.~~
Then have you a man with a broken leg?
~The Old Woman.~~
No.
~The Doctor.~~
Or a man who has gone out of his mind and attacked his wife and children
with a hatchet--four patients in all?
~The Old Woman.~~
No..
~The Doctor.~~
Then have you a young girl with palpitation of the heart? Do not lie to
me, old woman, for I am almost sure that this is where I was to attend
her.
~The Old Woman.~~
No.
~The Doctor.~~
No? Well, I believe you, for you speak with such conviction. Let me look
in my book again. Have you a young gentleman who has had his head broken
with a stone, and now lies at death's door?
~The Old Woman.~~
Yes. Step through that door on the left, and mind the rats don't eat
you.
~The Doctor.~~
Very well, I will attend the young gentleman. Oh dear, oh dear! I am for
ever being sent for, for ever being sent for--day and night alike! This
time it is night, and though the street lamps have long ago been put
out, I have to trot away all the same. Thus I often make mistakes, old
woman.
[_Exit through the door on the left._
~The Old Woman.~~
Already one doctor has been to attend the boy, without doing him any
good, and now here comes another one--to do him about as little, I
reckon. Well, what of that? The boy will die, and we shall go on living
without him--that is all. I shall go on sitting in my kitchen as before,
without a soul to keep me company, and think; and one room the more
will be left empty for the rats to scamper and squeak in. Well, _let_
them scamper, and _let_ them squeak: it is all one to me.
Do you want to know why that ruffian flung the stone at the young
master's head? Nay, I do not know. How should I know why men want to
kill one another? All I know is that a man threw a stone, and then hid
himself in a dark corner, and that a boy was struck by that stone, and
now lies a-dying. They say that the young master was good and kind to
poor people. Maybe. I do not know. It is all one to me. Kind or cruel,
old or young, alive or dead--folk are all one to me. So long as I am
paid my wages I shall stop where I am; and when those wages cease I
shall move elsewhere and cook for some one else, or, maybe, give up
working altogether, for I am growing old, and sometimes mistake salt
for sugar. Or perhaps I shall be discharged, and told to go about my
business, so that they may get another cook in my place. Well, what of
that? I shall just go--that is all. Every place is the same to me--here,
there, or anywhere; every place is the same to me.
[_Re-enter the Doctor, accompanied by the Man and his Wife. Both the
latter are now grown old and grey. Yet, though the Man walks with his
body slightly bent, he holds his head (to which his shaggy, upstanding
hair and long beard impart something of a leonine appearance) erect.
Likewise, though he has to don a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles
whenever he wishes to observe an object closely, his glance still
flashes keenly and directly from under his grey eyebrows._]
~The Doctor.~~
Your son has fallen into a deep sleep, and you must not wake him.
Perhaps it is the best sign at present. But you yourselves ought to take
some rest. People who have time to sleep should _use_ it, and not waste
the precious hours of the night in walking about and talking, as _I_
have to do.
~The Man's Wife.~~
We thank you, doctor. You have greatly reassured us. Are you coming
again to-morrow?
~The Doctor.~~
Yes, and the next day as well. (_To the Old Woman_) You too ought to be
in bed. Every one ought to be in bed at this time of night. Is that my
way out--through that door there? I so often make mistakes!
[_Exit with the Old Woman._
~The Man.~~
(_Taking up the sketch-plan from his Worktable._) Look at this, my wife.
It is something which I had begun upon just before our boy's accident
happened. I remember stopping in the middle of that line and thinking,
"I will take a little rest now, and continue it later." See how simple
and easy that line was to draw! Yet how strange to look upon it and
think, "Perhaps this may prove to have been the last line which I drew
while our boy was yet alive!" With what an unconscious air of ill-omen
do its very straightness and simplicity seem charged!
~His Wife.~~
Nay; do not fret yourself, my darling, but chase away these despondent
thoughts from you.
I feel sure now that the doctor spoke truth--that our boy, will recover.
~The Man.~~
Ah, but are not _you_ fretting a little, my dear one? Look at yourself
in the mirror, and you will see that your face is as white as your hair,
my poor old comrade.
~His Wife.~~
Oh, perhaps I _am_ worrying a little; but, none the less, I feel _sure_
that our boy will recover.
~The Man.~~
Ah, how you hearten my spirits, as always you have done! How you
charm away my sorrows with your sincerity and goodness! O little
armour-bearer, the never-failing keeper of my faltering sword, thy old
knight is in pitiful case now--his trembling hand can scarce hold his
weapon. But what see I here? My son's old toys! Who put them there?
~His Wife.~~
My dear one, you forget. You yourself put them there, long ago; for you
said that you could work better if those innocent, childish toys lay
beside you.
~The Man.~~
Yes, yes, I was forgetting. Yet I lean scarcely bear to look upon
them now; even as a condemned criminal cannot bear to look upon the
instruments of torture and death. When a son is dying his toys become
things of horror to the father who is to be left behind. Wife, wife, I
cannot bear to see them!
~His Wife.~~
Ah, it was in the far-off, early days when we were poor--as poor as
we are now--that we bought them for him. I too feel hurt to see them
there--poor darling little toys!
~The Man.~~
I cannot help it; I must take them in my hands once more. Here is the
little horse without a tail. "Gee up, gee up, little horse! Where are
you galloping to?"
"Oh, a long way off, Papa--a long way off, to where there are fields and
forests of green."
"Will you take me with you on your little horse?"
"Oh yes, oh yes, Papa! Climb on to his back, dearest Papa!---- ----" And
here is the little pasteboard helmet which I tried on my own head the
day that we bought it in the shop and made so merry over it. "Who are
you?"
"I am a knight, Papa--the most powerful, daring knight."
"And where are you going to, little knight?"
"To slay a dragon, dear Papa, and to set his prisoners free."
"Go then, go then, little knight--------"
[_The Man's Wife bursts into tears._]
And here, too, is our old friend, the clown doll, with his dear, silly
face. But how ragged he looks now!--as though he had been through a
hundred fights! Yet he is as red-nosed and smiling as ever. Now, sound
your cymbals, my little friend, as you were used to do. You cannot, eh?
You say that you cannot?--that you have only one cymbal left? Very well,
then. Down upon the floor you go!
[_He throws down the doll._]
~His Wife.~~
Oh, what are you doing? Remember how often our boy has kissed its merry
face.
~The Man.~~
Yes, I did wrong. Forgive me, my dear. And do you too pardon me, my
little friend of old times. [_He stoops with some difficulty and picks
up the doll._] So thou art still smiling? Ah well, I will lay thee
aside awhile. Be not angry with me, but I cannot bear thy smiles just
now--thou must go and smile elsewhere.
~His Wife.~~
Oh, how your words rend my heart I Believe me, our son will yet recover.
How could it be right that youth should go to the grave before old age?
~The Man.~~
And how often have you known the "right" to happen, my wife?
~His Wife.~~
Nay, nay; speak not so, my old comrade, but, rather, let us go upon our
knees and say a prayer to God.
~The Man.~~
Methinks it would be difficult for my old knees to bend now.
~His Wife.~~
Yet _try_ to bend them, dearest one. It is our duty.
~The Man.~~
Think you, then, that God would heed one who has never yet troubled His
ear with prayer or praise? Do _you_ pray: you are the mother.
~His Wife.~~
Nay, but do you also: you are the father. If a father will not pray for
his son, who else shall do it--to whom else shall it be left? And would
my prayer alone avail as much as yours and mine together?
~The Man.~~
Be it so, then; and perhaps the Everlasting Goodness will yet hold His
hand when He sees an aged couple on their knees.
[_They kneel down, with their faces towards the corner where stands the
Being in Grey, and clasp their hands in an attitude of prayer._]
~Prayer of the Mother.~~
O God, I beseech Thee to spare the life of our son. One thing, one thing
only, can my tongue find to say unto Thee: Spare us our son, O God!
Spare us our son! Nought but this can I ask of Thee, for all around me
is dark--all around me is slipping beneath my feet, so that I am
utterly bewildered and astray. In the agony of my soul I beseech Thee,
O God--again, and yet again--to spare us our son, to spare us our son.
Forgive me this poor prayer of mine, but indeed I can do no better. Thou
Thyself knowest that I can do no better. Look down upon me, look down
upon me! Dost thou not see my trembling head, my trembling hands--ah, my
trembling hands, O God? Have mercy, then, upon our child. He is yet so
young that the birthmark is not faded from his right hand. Suffer
him, then, I beseech Thee, to live a little longer--just a little
longer--just a little longer. Have mercy upon him, have mercy upon him!
[_She breaks off into silent weeping, and covers her face with her
hands. The Man does not glance at her, but gives utterance, in his turn,
to the following prayer._]
~Prayer of the Father.~~
O God, dost Thou see me praying to Thee? Dost Thou see that I have bent
my aged knees, and am crouching in the dust--that I am kissing the very
earth in token of my supplication? Perchance at times I have offended
Thee? If that be so, yet grant me Thy forgiveness. Perchance at times
I have been insolent and presuming--I have blamed Thee for my
misfortunes--I have demanded when I should have asked? Yet now, I
pray Thee, forgive me these things. Punish me if Thou wilt--punish me
howsoever Thou pleasest: only spare us the life of our son. Yea, spare
him, I beseech Thee. I do not ask this of Thy mercy, nor of Thy pity,
but of Thy _justice_: for Thou art old in years, as even am I, and
wouldst the better comprehend me for that. Evil men have tried to kill
our son--cruel, pitiless men who lurked in dark places and cast stones
at him. Yea, they lurked in dark places, and cast stones at him, the
cowardly villains! Yet suffer them not to have achieved their evil
purpose, seeing that they are men who do offend Thee with their
misdeeds, and pollute Thy earth with their abominations. Staunch Thou,
rather, the blood of our beloved son, and preserve to us his life. When
Thou didst take away from me my riches, did I beseech and importune Thee
to give me back my possessions, my friends, my fame, my talents? Did
I, O God? No, never did I. I asked not even that my talents should be
restored to me; and Thou Thyself knowest that a man's talents are more
to him than life itself. Perchance, thought I, these things must be;
so I bore them--bore them ever without complaining. Yet now I beseech
Thee--here on my knees, and kissing the very dust of earth before
Thee--that Thou wilt restore to us our little son. Yea, I kiss the very
earth in token of my supplication.
[_The Man and his Wife rise to their feet again. The Being in Grey has
listened to these prayers without making any sign._]
~The Man's Wife.~~
My dearest one, I cannot help fearing that your prayer was not
sufficiently humble in tone. Methought there was too much of the note of
pride in it.
~The Man.~~
No, no, my wife. I did but speak Him fair, as man would speak to man.
Surely He cannot prefer flatterers to open, self-respecting men who
speak the truth? No, wife; you do not understand Him. I feel quite
confident again now, and my mind is at ease--it is even cheerful. I feel
that I can still do a little to help our son, and the thought gives me
comfort. Go now, and see if he is asleep. He ought to have a good, sound
sleep.
[The Man's Wife leaves the room, and the Man seems to throw a glance as
of gratitude towards the Being in Grey; after which he takes up the
doll again, and begins to play with it, and to kiss its long red nose.
Presently his Wife returns.]
~The Man.~~
(_With cheerful animation_). Yes, I feel sure now that I am' forgiven
for my late insult to this little friend of mine. And how is our dear
boy?
~His Wife.~~
He looks so dreadfully pale!
~The Man.~~
Oh, that is nothing. That will soon pass away. You must remember that he
has lost so much blood.
~His Wife.~~
Yet it hurts me to see his poor, pale face and close-cropped head. He
used to have such beautiful curls!
~The Man.~~
Yes, I know, but the doctor was obliged to cut them off to dress
the wound. But never mind, my wife; they will soon grow again, more
beautiful than ever. Did you save the curls when they were cut off? They
ought certainly to have been saved, for there was his dear blood upon
them'.
~His Wife.~~
Yes, my beloved one; and I stored them in this casket here--the only,
thing of value which we have left.
~The Man.~~
Then you did rightly. We have no cause to fret about our vanished
riches, for the boy; will soon be grown up, and able to go and work for
us all. Yes, he will soon recover for us what we have lost. I feel
quite cheerful again, my wife--quite confident about the future. Do
you remember our poor old room with the pink walls, and how the good
neighbours brought us sprigs of oak and birch, and how you made a
chaplet of leaves for my head, and swore that I was a genius?
~His Wife.~~
Yes; and I swear it now, my darling. Others may have ceased to,
appreciate you, but not I.
~The Man.~~
Yet you are mistaken, little wife. If I were _really_ a genius my
creations would have outlived this poor old relic which they call my
body: yet _I_ am still alive, whereas my creations----
~His Wife.~~
No, no! They have not perished, nor will they ever. Think of that great
mansion at the corner of the street--the one which you designed ten
years ago. I know well that you go to look at it every evening when the
sun is setting. And, indeed, is there in all the world a more beautiful,
a more stately mansion?
~The Man.~~
Yes, of set purpose I built it in such a way that the beams of the
setting sun may fall upon it and make its windows flash. When all the
rest of the city is in twilight my house is still bidding farewell to
the sun. Yes, 'twas a fine piece of work; and perchance--who knows?--it
will outlive me a little while.
~His Wife.~~
Of _course_ it will, my darling!
~The Man.~~
One thing, and one thing only, grieves me concerning that masterpiece
of mine: and that is that people should so soon have forgotten its
designer. They might have remembered him a _little_ longer, just a
_little_ longer.
~His Wife.~~
Oh, in time people forget every one, just as they cease to care for
fashions which they once adored.
~The Man.~~
Yet they might have remembered me just a little longer, just a little
longer.
~His Wife.~~
One day I saw a young artist gazing at that mansion. He was studying; it
carefully, and sketching it in a notebook.
~The Man.~~
Oh, you should have told me of that before, dear wife! It means a great
deal, a very great deal. It means that my design will be handed down to
future generations, and that, even if my personality be forgotten, my
_work_ will live. Yes, it means a great deal, a very great deal.
~His Wife.~~
Ah! So you see that you are _not_ forgotten, my darling! Think, too, of
the young man who saluted you so respectfully in the street the other
day.
~The Man.~~
Yes, that is true, my wife. He was a nice-looking young man--a very
nice-looking young man, and had such a distinguished face. I am glad to
have been reminded of his bow that day. Well, I am almost bowing myself
now; yes, bowing to sleep, for I am quite worn out. Yes, I am growing
old, my little greyheaded wife. Do you not notice it?
~His Wife.~~
No, you are as handsome as ever.
~The Man.~~
But are not my eyes just a little less bright than they used to be?
~His Wife.~~
No. They flash as brilliantly as ever they did.
~The Man.~~
And my hair--is it as jet-black as before?
~His Wife.~~
No; but it is so snowily white that it looks even more beautiful.
~The Man~~
And have I no wrinkles?
~His Wife.~~
Oh, perhaps a _little_ one or two, but----
~The Man.~~
Oh yes, I know! I am a perfect Adonis. I will buy a uniform to-morrow,
and take service in the light cavalry. Will that do, eh?
[_His Wife bursts out laughing._]
~His Wife.~~
Ah, now you are joking, just as you used to do. But lie down here, my
darling, and take some sleep, while I go and sit by our boy. You may
rest easy, for I shall not leave him, and when he wakes I will call
you.--You will not mind kissing an old wrinkled hand, will you?
~The Man.~~
Silence, silence! You are still the most beautiful woman that I have
ever seen.
~His Wife.~~
But are there no wrinkles on my face?
~The Man.~~
Wrinkles? What wrinkles? I see only a beautiful, dear, kind, clever
face--beyond that, nothing. You will not be angry with me for chiding
you thus? Now go to our boy, and watch over him; spreading around his
bed the calm halo of your love and tenderness. And if he should be
restless in his sleep, sing to him a little lullaby, as you were wont
to do, and place the grapes near his bedside, so that he may be able to
reach them with his hand when he awakes.
[_Exit the Man's Wife, while the Man lies down upon the couch with
his head at the end which is nearest to the corner occupied by the
motionless figure of the Being in Grey: so near, indeed, that the hand
of the Being seems almost to be resting upon the Man's grey, dishevelled
locks. In a moment the Man is asleep._]
~The Being in Grey.~~
Thus in sound and happy slumber sleeps the Man--buoyed up with fond,
delusive hopes. His breathing is as calm as that of a little child, and
his aged heart beats evenly and quietly as he rests. He knows not that
within a few seconds his son will have passed away for ever into the
Infinite. Yet even as the Man lies there the shadowy mists of sleep are
presenting to his vision a dream of happiness which shall never be. He
dreams that he is with his son, and that together they are gliding in a
fair white boat down a broad and peaceful river. It seems to him that it
is a beautiful day in summer, and that he is gazing upon pure blue sky
and water clear as crystal. He can hear the rustling of the reeds as
they part before the boat, and in his heart he is joyous and hopeful.
For all his senses are deceiving the Man.
Yet suddenly he grows uneasy. Some strange fancy has pierced the mists
of sleep and seared his soul. "Why have thy golden locks been shorn, my
boy? Why have they done that?"
"My head was hurting me, Papa. That is why they have shorn my locks."
And once again, in his fond delusion, the Man feels happy as he gazes
at the blue sky and listens to the rustling of the reeds as they part
before the boat.
No; he knows not that at this moment his son is dying. He knows not that
his beloved child is calling to him with a last voiceless cry of the
soul as, in the throes of delirium, the boy's childish instinct turns
once more to its belief in the superior strength of his elders. "Papa,
Papa! I am dying! Save me, Papa!" No; the Man sleeps on, in sound and
happy slumber, while secret, fleeting dreams continue to present to his
vision a dream of happiness which shall never be.
Awake, Man, awake! Thy son is--_dead!_
[_The man lifts his head with a frightened gesturey and rises to his
feet._]
~The Man.~~
I feel a sort of fear upon me. I thought I heard some one call.
[_Almost at the same moment the sound of female voices in lamentation is
heard behind the scenes, and the Man's Wife enters, looking as white as
a sheet._]
~The Man.~~
Our--our son? Is--is he dead?
~His Wife.~~
Yes--he is _dead!_
~The Man.~~
Did he call-to me just now?
~His Wife.~~
No; he never returned to consciousness; he never recognized any one.
Yes, he is dead--our son, our darling son!
[_She falls to the ground before the Man, sobbing violently, and
clasping him round the knees. The Man lays his hand protectingly upon
her head as he turns towards the Being in Grey and exclaims in a choking
voice:_]
Villain! Thou hast wounded a woman, and thou hast killed a child!
[_His Wife still continues sobbing, while the Man silently strokes her
head with a trembling hand._]
~The Man.~~
Do not weep, my darling; do not weep. Life only laughs at our tears,
even as it has laughed at our prayers.
[_Then, turning once more towards the Being in Grey, he exclaims:_]
And for _thee_--Fate, Life, God, or Devil, whatsoever be thy name--I
hereby curse thee!
[_As the Man delivers the following curse he stands with one arm
outstretched, as though shielding his Wife from danger, while the other
arm he extends menacingly towards the Being in Grey._]
~The Man's Curse.~~
Hereby I curse thee, and all that thou hast given me! I curse the day
whereon I was born, and the day whereon I shall die! I curse my whole
life, its joys and its sorrows! I curse myself, my ears, my eyes, my
heart, my tongue, my head! All those things which thou hast given me
I fling back in thy face, thou Fate, thou Demon! Cursed be thou--aye,
cursed for ever! Yet with this very curse will I vanquish thee at the
last. For, in truth, what more canst thou do unto me? Strike me, if thou
wilt--aye, strike me to the ground: I will yet laugh aloud in thy face,
and cry, "My curse be upon thee, my curse be upon thee!" Or fill my
mouth full with the creeping worms of death: I will yet with my last
breath gasp into thy obscene ears, "My curse be upon thee, my curse be
upon thee!" Seize thou my carcase, gnaw it like a dog, worry, it in the
outer darkness of hell: what though my soul have left it and be fled
to other regions, I will yet repeat, again and again, "My curse be upon
thee, my curse be upon thee!" Aye! By the head of this woman whom thou
hast wounded, and by the body of this child whom thou hast slain, I
curse thee, I curse thee--aye, I, the Man!
[_For a little while he remains standing in silence, his arm raised in
a menacing attitude. During the pronouncement of the curse the Being in
Grey has made no sign. Only, the flame of the candle has flickered as
with a breath of wind. Thus they stand facing one another--the Man and
the Being in Grey; until gradually the sounds of lamentation behind the
scenes grow louder, and merge into a concerted threnody as the curtain
falls._]
CURTAIN