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The Road to Damascus, a Trilogy

by August Strindberg · English · Gutenberg #8875 · 386,565 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Road to Damascus, a Trilogy

Author: August Strindberg

Commentator: Gunnar Ollén

Translator: Graham Rawson


        
Release date: September 1, 2005 [eBook #8875]
                Most recently updated: August 8, 2009

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8875

Credits: Produced by Nicole Apostola, and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ROAD TO DAMASCUS, A TRILOGY ***




Produced by Nicole Apostola





THE ROAD TO DAMASCUS

A TRILOGY


By August Strindberg


English Version By Graham Rawson

With An Introduction By Gunnar Ollen



CONTENTS

     INTRODUCTION
     PART ONE
     PART TWO
     PART THREE




INTRODUCTION

Strindberg's great trilogy _The Road to Damascus_ presents many
mysteries to the uninitiated. Its peculiar changes of mood, its gallery
of half unreal characters, its bizarre episodes combine to make it a
bewilderingly rich but rather 'difficult' work. It cannot be recommended
to the lover of light drama or the seeker of momentary distraction. _The
Road to Damascus_ does not deal with the superficial strata of human
life, but probes into those depths where the problems of God, and death,
and eternity become terrifying realities.

Many authors have, of course, dealt with the profoundest problems
of humanity without, on that account, having been able to evoke our
interest. There may have been too much philosophy and too little art in
the presentation of the subject, too little reality and too much soaring
into the heights. That is not so with Strindberg's drama. It is a
trenchant settling of accounts between a complex and fascinating
individual--the author--and his past, and the realistic scenes have
often been transplanted in detail from his own changeful life.

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

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

_The Road to Damascus_ might be termed a marriage drama, a mystery
drama, or a drama of penance and conversion, according as preponderance
is given to one or other of its characteristics. The question then
arises: what was it in the drama which was of deepest significance to
the author himself? The answer is to be found in the title, with its
allusion to the narrative in the Acts of the Apostles of the journey of
Saul, the persecutor, the scoffer, who, on his way to Damascus, had an
awe-inspiring vision, which converted Saul, the hater of Christ, into
Paul, the apostle of the Gentiles. Strindberg's drama describes the
progress of the author right up to his conversion, shows how stage by
stage he relinquishes worldly things, scientific renown, and above all
woman, and finally, when nothing more binds him to this world, takes the
vows of a monk and enters a monastery where no dogmas or theology, but
only broadminded humanity and resignation hold sway. What, however,
in an inner sense, distinguishes Strindberg's drama from the Bible
narrative is that the conversion itself--although what leads up to it
is convincingly described, both logically and psychologically--does
not bear the character of a final and irrevocable decision, but on
the contrary is depicted with a certain hesitancy and uncertainty. THE
STRANGER'S entry into the monastery consequently gives the impression of
being a piece of logical construction; the author's heart is not wholly
in it. From Strindberg's later works it also becomes evident that his
severe crisis had undoubtedly led to a complete reformation in that it
definitely caused him to turn from worldly things, of which indeed he
had tasted to the full, towards matters divine. But this did not
mean that then and there he accepted some specific religion, whether
Christian or other. One would undoubtedly come nearest to the author's
own interpretation in this respect by characterising _The Road to
Damascus_ not as a drama of conversion, but as a drama of struggle,
the story of a restless, arduous pilgrimage through the chimeras of
the world towards the border beyond which eternity stretches in solemn
peace, symbolised in the drama by a mountain, the peaks of which reach
high above the clouds.

In this final settling of accounts one subject is of dominating
importance, recurring again and again throughout the trilogy; it is that
of woman. Strindberg him, of course, become famous as a writer about
women; he has ruthlessly described the hatreds of love, the hell that
marriage can be, he is the creator of _Le Plaidoyer d'un Fou_ and
_The Dance of Death_, he had three divorces, yet was just as much a
worshipper of woman--and at the same time a diabolical hater of her
seducing qualities under which he suffered defeat after defeat. Each
time he fell in love afresh he would compare himself to Hercules, the
Titan, whose strength was vanquished by Queen Omphale, who clothed
herself in his lion's skin, while he had to sit at the spinning wheel
dressed in women's clothes. It can be readily understood that to a man
of Strindberg's self-conceit the problem of his relations with women
must become a vital issue on the solution of which the whole Damascus
pilgrimage depended.

In 1898, when Parts I and II of the trilogy were written, Strindberg
had been married twice; both marriages had ended unhappily. In the year
1901, when the wedding scenes of Part III were written, Strindberg had
recently experienced the rapture of a new love which, however, was soon
to be clouded. It must not be forgotten that in his entire emotional
life Strindberg was an artist and as such a man of impulse, with the
spontaneity and naivity and intensity of a child. For him love had
nothing to do with respectability and worldly calculations; he liked to
think of it as a thunderbolt striking mortals with a destructive force
like the lightning hurled by the almighty Zeus. It is easy to understand
that a man of such temperament would not be particularly suited for
married life, where self-sacrifice and strong-minded patience may be
severely tested. In addition his three wives were themselves artists,
one an authoress, the other two actresses, all of them pronounced
characters, endowed with a degree of will and self-assertion, which,
although it could not be matched against Strindberg's, yet would have
been capable of producing friction with rather more pliant natures than
that of the Swedish dramatist.

In the trilogy Strindberg's first wife, Siri von Essen, his marriage to
whom was happiest and lasted longest (1877-1891), and more especially
his second wife, the Austrian authoress Frida Uhl (married to him
1893-1897) have supplied the subject matter for his picture of THE LADY.
In the happy marriage scenes of Part III we recognise reminiscences from
the wedding of Strindberg, then fifty-two, and the twenty-three-year-old
actress Harriet Bosse, whose marriage to him lasted from 1901 until
1904.

The character of THE LADY in Parts I and II is chiefly drawn from
recollections--fairly recent when the drama was written--of Frida
Uhl and his life with her. From the very beginning her marriage to
Strindberg had been most troublous. In the autumn of 1892 Strindberg
moved from the Stockholm skerries to Berlin, where he lived a rather
hectic Bohemian life among the artists collecting in the little tavern
'Zum Schwarzen Ferkel.' He made the acquaintance of Frida Uhl in the
beginning of the year 1893, and after a good many difficulties was able
to arrange for a marriage on the 2nd May on Heligoland Island,
where English marriage laws, less rigorous than the German, applied.
Strindberg's nervous temperament would not tolerate a quiet and peaceful
honeymoon; quite soon the couple departed to Gravesend via Hamburg.
Strindberg was too restless to stay there and moved on to London. There
he left his wife to try to negotiate for the production of his plays,
and journeyed alone to Sellin, on the island of Ruegen, after having
first been compelled to stop in Hamburg owing to lack of money.
Strindberg stayed on Ruegen during the month of July, and then left for
the home of his parents-in-law at Mondsee, near Salzburg in Austria,
where he was to meet his wife. But when she was delayed a few days on
the journey from London, Strindberg impatiently departed for Berlin,
where Frida Uhl followed shortly after. About the same time an action
was brought for the suppression of the German version of _Le Plaidoyer
d'un Fou_ as being immoral. This book gives an undisguised, intensely
personal picture of Strindberg's first marriage, and was intended by him
for publication only after his death as a defence against accusations
directed against him for his behaviour towards Siri von Essen.
Strindberg was acquitted after a time, but before that his easily fired
imagination had given him a thorough shake-up, which could only hasten
the crisis which seemed to be approaching. After a trip to Bruenn, where
Strindberg wrote his scientific work _Antibarbarus_, the couple arrived
in November at the home of Frida Uhl's grandparents in the little
village of Dornach, by the Upper Danube; here the wanderings of 1893 at
last came to an end. For a few months comparative peace reigned in the
artists' little home, but the birth of a daughter, Kerstin, in May,
brought this tranquillity to a sudden end. Strindberg, who had lived in
a state of nervous depression since the 1880's, felt himself put on one
side by the child, and felt ill at ease in an environment of, as he put
it in the autobiographical _The Quarantine Master_, 'articles of food,
excrements, wet-nurses treated like milch-cows, cooks and decaying
vegetables.' He longed for cleanliness and peace, and in letters to
an artist friend he spoke of entering a monastery. He even thought of
founding one himself in the Ardennes and drew up detailed schemes for
rules, dress, and food. The longing to get away and common interests
with his Parisian friend (a musician named Leopold Littmansson)
attracted Strindberg to Paris, where he settled down in the beginning of
the autumn 1894. His wife joined him, but left again at the close of the
autumn. In reality Strindberg was at this time almost impossible to live
with. Persecution mania and hallucinations took possession of him and
his morbid suspicions knew no bounds. In spite of this he was half
conscious that there was something wrong with his mental faculties, and
in the beginning of 1895, assisted by the Swedish Minister, he went by
his own consent to the St. Louis Hospital in Paris. During his chemical
experiments, in which among other things he tried to produce gold, he
had burnt his hands, so that he had to seek medical attention on that
account also. He wrote about this in a letter:

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

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

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

If to begin with, we dwell for a while on Part I it is evident that
the hurried wanderings of THE STRANGER and THE LADY between the street
corner, the room in the hotel, the sea and the Rose Room with the
mother-in-law, have their foundation--often in detail--in Strindberg's
rovings with Frida Uhl. I will give a few examples. In a book by Frida
Uhl about her marriage to the Swedish genius (splendid in parts but not
very reliable) she recalls that the month before her marriage she took
rooms at Neustaedtische Kirchstrasse 1, in Berlin, facing a Gothic church
in Dorotheenstrasse, situated at the cross-roads between the post
office in Dorotheenstrasse and the cafe 'Zum Schwarzen Ferkel' in
Wilhelmstrasse. This Berlin environment appears to be almost exactly
reproduced in the introductory scene of Part I, where THE STRANGER and
THE LADY meet outside a little Gothic church with a post office and
cafe adjoining. The happy scenes by the sea are, of course, pleasant
recollections from Heligoland, and the many discussions about money
matters in the midst of the honeymoon are quite explicable when we know
how the dramatist was continually haunted by money troubles, even
if occasionally he received a big fee, and that this very financial
insecurity was one of the chief reasons why Frida Uhl's father opposed
the marriage. Again, the country scenes which follow in Part I, shift
to the hilly country round the Danube, with their Catholic Calvaries
and expiation chapels, where Strindberg lived with his parents-in-law in
Mondsee and with his wife's grandparents in Dornach and the neighbouring
village Klam, with its mill, its smithy, and its gloomy ravine. The Rose
Room was the name he gave to the room in which he lived during his stay
with his mother-in-law and his daughter Kerstin in Klam in the autumn
of 1896, as he has himself related in one of his autobiographical books
_Inferno_. In this way we could go on, showing how the localities which
are to be met with in the drama often correspond in detail to the places
Strindberg had visited in the course of his pilgrimage during the years
1893-1898. Space prevents us, however, from entering on a more detailed
analysis in this respect.

That THE STRANGER represents Strindberg's _alter ego_ is evident in many
ways, even apart from the fact that THE STRANGER'S wanderings from place
to place, as we have already seen, bear a direct relation to those of
Strindberg himself. THE STRANGER is an author, like Strindberg; his
childhood of hate is Strindberg's own; other details--such as for
instance that THE STRANGER has refused to attend his father's funeral,
that the Parish Council has wanted to take his child away from him, that
on account of his writings he has suffered lawsuits, illness, poverty,
exile, divorce; that in the police description he is characterised as
a person without a permanent situation, with uncertain income; married,
but had deserted his wife and left his children; known as entertaining
subversive opinions on social questions (by _The Red Room_, _The New
Realm_ and other works Strindberg became the great standard-bearer
of the Swedish Radicals in their campaign against conventionalism
and bureaucracy); that he gives the impression of not being in full
possession of his senses; that he is sought by his children's guardian
because of unpaid maintenance allowance--everything corresponds to the
experiences of the unfortunate Strindberg himself, with all his bitter
defeats in life and his triumphs in the world of letters.

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

'In order to understand the first part of _The Road to Damascus_ we
must take into consideration that the author had not yet shaken off his
terrifying visions and persecutionary hallucinations. He can play with
them artistically, sometimes he feels tempted to make a joke of them,
but they still retain for him their "terrifying semi-reality." It is
this which makes the drama so bewildering, but at the same time so
vigorous and affecting. Later, when depicting dream states, he creates
an artful blend of reality and poetry. He produces more exquisite works
of art, but he no longer gives the same anguished impression of a soul
striving to free itself from the meshes of his _idees fixes_.'

With his hypersensitive nervous system Strindberg, like THE STRANGER,
really gives the impression of having been a visionary. For instance,
his author friend Albert Engstroem, has told how one evening during
a stay far out in the Stockholm skerries, far from all civilisation,
Strindberg suddenly had a feeling that his little daughter was ill, and
wanted to return to town at once. True enough, it turned out that
the girl had fallen ill just at the time when Strindberg had felt the
warning. As regards thought-reading, it appears that at the slightest
change in expression and often for no perceptible reason at all,
Strindberg would draw the most definite conclusions, as definite as
from an uttered word or an action. This we have to keep in mind, for
instance, when judging Strindberg's accusations against his wife in _Le
Plaidoyer d'un Fou_, the book which THE LADY in _The Road to Damascus_
is tempted to read, in spite of having been forbidden by THE STRANGER,
with tragic results. In Part III of the drama Strindberg lets THE
STRANGER discuss this thought-reading problem with his first wife. THE
STRANGER says:

'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';

to which THE LADY, to Strindberg's satisfaction, has to reply:

'You were wrong to do it, and right. Because my thoughts were sinful.'

As regards the other figures in the gallery of characters in Part I,
we have already shown THE LADY as the identical counterpart in all
essentials of Strindberg's second wife, Frida Uhl. Like the latter THE
LADY is a Catholic, has a grandfather, Dr. Cornelius Reisch--called THE
OLD MAN in the drama--whose passion is shooting; and a mother, Maria
Uhl, with a predilection for religious discourses in Strindberg's own
style; another detail, the fact that she was eighteen years old before
she crossed to the other shore to see what had shimmered dimly in the
distant haze, corresponds with Frida Uhl's statement that she had been
confined in a convent until she was eighteen and a half years old.
On the other hand, the chief female character of the drama does not
correspond to her real life counterpart in that she is supposed to have
been married to a doctor before eloping with THE STRANGER, Strindberg.
Here reminiscences from Strindberg's first marriage play a part. Siri
von Essen, Strindberg's first wife, was married to an officer, Baron
Wrangel, and both the Wrangels received Strindberg kindly in their home
as a friend. Love quickly flared up between Siri von Essen-Wrangel
and Strindberg. She obtained a divorce from her husband and married
Strindberg. Baron von Wrangel shortly afterwards married again, a cousin
of Siri von Essen. Knowing these matrimonial complications we understand
how Strindberg must have felt when, on the point of leaving for
Heligoland to marry Frida Uhl, he met his former wife's (Siri von Essen)
first husband, Baron Wrangel, on Lehrter Station in Berlin, and found
that, like Strindberg himself, he was on a lover's errand. Knowing all
this we need not be surprised at the extremely complicated matrimonial
relations in _The Road to Damascus_, where, for example, for the sake
of THE STRANGER, THE DOCTOR obtains a divorce from THE LADY in order to
marry THE STRANGER'S first wife. In addition to Baron Wrangel a doctor
in the town of Ystad, in the south of Sweden--Dr. Eliasson who attended
Strindberg during his most difficult period--has stood as a model for
THE DOCTOR. We note in particular that the description of the doctor's
house enclosing a courtyard on three sides, tallies with a type of
building which is characteristic of the south of Sweden. When THE DOCTOR
ruthlessly explains to THE STRANGER that the asylum, 'The Good Help,'
was not a hospital but a lunatic asylum, he expresses Strindberg's own
misgivings that the St. Louis Hospital, of which, as mentioned above,
Strindberg was an inmate in the beginning of the year 1895, was really
to be regarded as a lunatic asylum.

Even minor characters, such as CAESAR and THE BEGGAR have their
counterparts in real life, even though in the main they are fantastic
creations of his imagination. The guardian of his daughter, Kerstin, a
relative of Frida Uhl's, was called Dr. Caesar R. v. Weyr. Regarding THE
BEGGAR it may be enough to quote Strindberg's feelings when confronted
with the collections made by his Paris friends:

'I am a beggar who has no right to go to cafes. Beggar! That is the
right word; it rings in my ears and brings a burning blush to my cheeks,
the blush of shame, humiliation, and rage!

'To think that six weeks ago I sat at this table! My theatre manager
addressed me as Dear Master; journalists strove to interview me, the
photographer begged to be allowed to sell my portrait. And now: a
beggar, a branded man, an outcast from society!'

After this we can understand why Strindberg in _The Road to Damascus_
apparently in such surprising manner is seized by the suspicion that he
is himself the beggar.

We have thus seen that Part I of _The Road to Damascus_ is at the same
time a free creation of fantasy and a drama of portrayal. The elements
of realism are starkly manifest, but they are moulded and hammered into
a work of art by a force of combinative imagination rising far above
the task of mere descriptive realism. The scenes unroll themselves in
calculated sequence up to the central asylum picture, from there to
return in reverse order through the second half of the drama, thus
symbolising life's continuous repetition of itself, Kierkegaard's
_Gentagelse_. The first part of _The Road to Damascus_ is the one most
frequently produced on the stage. This is understandable, having regard
to its firm structure and the consistency of its faith in a Providence
directing the fortunes and misfortunes of man, whether the individual
rages in revolt or submits in quiet resignation.

The second part of _The Road to Damascus_ is dominated by the scenes of
the great alchemist banquet which, in all its fantastic oddity, is
one of the most suggestive ever created on the ancient theme of the
fickleness of fortune. It was suggested above that there were two
factors beyond all others binding Strindberg to the world and making him
hesitate before the monastery; one was woman, from whom he sets himself
free in Part II, after the birth of a child--precisely as in his
marriage to Frida Uhl--the other was scientific honour, in its highest
phase equivalent, to Strindberg, to the power to produce gold. Countless
were the experiments for this purpose made by Strindberg in his
primitive laboratories, and countless his failures. To the world-famous
author, literary honour meant little as opposed to the slightest
prospect of being acknowledged as a prominent scientist. Harriet Bosse
has told me that Strindberg seldom said anything about his literary
work, never was interested in what other people thought of them, or
troubled to read the reviews; but on the other hand he would often, with
sparkling eyes and childish pride, show her strips of paper, stained at
one end with some golden-brown substance. 'Look,' he said, 'this is
pure gold, and I have made it!' In face of the stubborn scepticism of
scientific experts Strindberg was, however, driven to despair as to his
ability, and felt his dreams of fortune shattered, as did THE STRANGER
at the macabre banquet given in his honour--a banquet which was, as a
matter of fact, planned by his Paris friends, not, as Strindberg would
have liked to believe, in honour of the great scientist, but to the
great author.

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

Besides having his belief in the rapture of love shattered, THE
STRANGER also suffers disappointment at seeing his child fall short of
expectations. The meeting between the daughter Sylvia and THE STRANGER
probably refers to an episode from the summer of 1899, when Strindberg,
after long years of suffering in foreign countries, saw his beloved
Swedish skerries again, and also his favourite daughter Greta, who had
come over from Finland to meet him. Contrary to the version given in the
drama, the reunion of father and daughter seems to have been very happy
and cordial. However, it is typical of the fate-oppressed Strindberg
that in his work even the happiest summer memories become tinged with
black. Once and for all the dark colours on his palette were the most
intense.

The final entry into the monastery was more a symbol for the struggling
author's dream of peace and atonement than a real thing in his life. It
is true he visited the Benedictine monastery, Maredsous, in Belgium in
1898, and its well stocked library came to play a certain part In the
drama, but already he realised, after one night's sojourn there, that he
had no call for the monastic life.

Seen as a whole the trilogy marks a turning point in Strindberg's
dramatic production. The logical, calculated concentration of his
naturalistic work of the 1880's has given way to a freer form of
composition, in which the atmosphere has come to mean more than the
dialogue, the musical and dreamlike qualities more than conciseness.
_The Road to Damascus_ abounds with details from real life, reproduced
in sharply naturalistic manner, but these are not, as things were in
his earlier works viewed by the author _a priori_ as reality but become
wrapped in dreamlike mystery. Just as with _Lady Julia_ and _The Father_
Strindberg ushered in the naturalistic drama of the 1880's, so in the
years around the turn of the century he was, with his symbolist cycle
_The Road to Damascus_, to break new ground for European drama which had
gradually become stuck in fixed formulas. _The Road to Damascus_ became
a landmark in world literature both as a brilliant work of art and as
bearer of new stage technique.

GUNNAR OLLEN

Translated by ESTHER JOHANSON





THE ROAD TO DAMASCUS




PART I.

English Version by Graham Rawson


CHARACTERS

     THE STRANGER
     THE LADY
     THE BEGGAR
     THE DOCTOR
     HIS SISTER
     AN OLD MAN
     A MOTHER
     AN ABBESS
     A CONFESSOR

     less important figures
     FIRST MOURNER
     SECOND MOURNER
     THIRD MOURNER
     LANDLORD
     CAESAR
     WAITER

     non-speaking
     A SMITH
     MILLER'S WIFE
     FUNERAL ATTENDANTS


SCENES

     SCENE I     Street Corner     SCENE XVII
     SCENE II    Doctor's House    SCENE XVI
     SCENE III   Room in an Hotel  SCENE XV
     SCENE IV    By the Sea        SCENE XIV
     SCENE V     On the Road       SCENE XIII
     SCENE VI    In a Ravine       SCENE XII
     SCENE VII   In a Kitchen      SCENE XI
     SCENE VIII  The 'Rose' Room   SCENE X
     SCENE IX    Convent


First Performance in England by the Stage Society at the Westminster
Theatre, 2nd May 1937

CAST

     THE STRANGER        Francis James
     THE LADY            Wanda Rotha
     THE BEGGAR          Alexander Sarner
     FIRST MOURNER       George Cormack
     SECOND MOURNER      Kenneth Bell
     THIRD MOURNER       Peter Bennett
     FOURTH MOURNER      Bryan Sears
     FIFTH MOURNER       Michael Boyle
     SIXTH MOURNER       Stephen Patrick
     THE LANDLORD        Stephen Jack
     THE DOCTOR          Neil Porter
     HIS SISTER          Olga Martin
     CAESAR              Peter Land
     A WAITER            Peter Bennett
     AN OLD MAN          A. Corney Grain
     A MOTHER            Frances Waring
     THE SMITH           Norman Thomas
     THE MILLER'S WIFE   Julia Sandham
     AN ABBESS           Natalia Moya
     A CONFESSOR         Tristan Rawson

     PRODUCER            Carl H. Jaffe
     ASSISTANT PRODUCER  Ossia Trilling



SCENE I

STREET CORNER

[Street Corner with a seat under a tree; the side-door of a small Gothic
Church nearby; also a post office and a cafe with chairs outside it.
Both post office and cafe are shut. A funeral march is heard off,
growing louder sand then fainter. A STRANGER is standing on the edge
of the pavement and seems uncertain which way to go. A church clock
strikes: first the four quarters and then the hour. It is three o'clock.
A LADY enters and greets the STRANGER. She is about to pass him, but
stops.]

STRANGER. It's you! I almost knew you'd come.

LADY. You wanted me: I felt it. But why are you waiting here?

STRANGER. I don't know. I must wait somewhere.

LADY. Who are you waiting for?

STRANGER. I wish I could tell you! For forty years I've been waiting for
something: I believe they call it happiness; or the end of unhappiness.
(Pause.) There's that terrible music again. Listen! But don't go, I beg
you. I'll feel afraid, if you do.

LADY. We met yesterday for the first time; and talked for four hours.
You roused my sympathy, but you mustn't abuse my kindness on that
account.

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

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

STRANGER. I wish I knew. I wish I knew why I still live; why I'm here
now; where I should go and what I should do! Do you believe that the
living can be damned already?

LADY. No.

STRANGER. Look at me.

LADY. Hasn't life brought you a single pleasure?

STRANGER. Not one! If at any time I thought so, it was merely a trap to
tempt me to prolong my miseries. If ripe fruit fell into my hand, it was
poisoned or rotten at the core.

LADY. What is your religion--if you'll forgive the question?

STRANGER. Only this: that when I can bear things no longer, I shall go.

LADY. Where?

STRANGER. Into annihilation. If I don't hold life in my hand, at least I
hold death.... It gives me an amazing feeling of power.

LADY. You're playing with death!

STRANGER. As I've played with life. (Pause.) I was a writer. But in
spite of my melancholy temperament I've never been able to take anything
seriously--not even my worst troubles. Sometimes I even doubt whether
life itself has had any more reality than my books. (A De Profundis is
heard from the funeral procession.) They're coming back. Why must they
process up and down these streets?

LADY. Do you fear them?

STRANGER. They annoy me. The place might be bewitched. No, it's not
death I fear, but solitude; for then one's not alone. I don't know who's
there, I or another, but in solitude one's not alone. The air grows
heavy and seems to engender invisible beings, who have life and whose
presence can be felt.

LADY. You've noticed that?

STRANGER. For some time I've noticed a great deal; but not as I used to.
Once I merely saw objects and events, forms and colours, whilst now I
perceive ideas and meanings. Life, that once had no meaning, has begun
to have one. Now I discern intention where I used to see nothing but
chance. (Pause.) When I met you yesterday it struck me you'd been sent
across my path, either to save me, or destroy me.

LADY. Why should I destroy you?

STRANGER. Because it may be your destiny.

LADY. No such idea ever crossed my mind; it was largely sympathy I felt
for you.... Never, in all my life, have I met anyone like you. I have
only to look at you for the tears to start to my eyes. Tell me, what
have you on your conscience? Have you done something wrong, that's never
been discovered or punished?

STRANGER. You may well ask! No, I've no more sins on my conscience than
other free men. Except this: I determined that life should never make a
fool of me.

LADY. You must let yourself be fooled, more or less, to live at all.

STRANGER. That would seem a kind of duty; but one I wanted to get out
of. (Pause.) I've another secret. It's whispered in the family that I'm
a changeling.

LADY. What's that?

STRANGER. A child substituted by the elves for the baby that was born.

LADY. Do you believe in such things?

STRANGER. No. But, as a parable, there's something to be said for it.
(Pause.) As a child I was always crying and didn't seem to take to
life in this world. I hated my parents, as they hated me. I brooked no
constraint, no conventions, no laws, and my longing was for the woods
and the sea.

LADY. Did you ever see visions?

STRANGER. Never. But I've often thought that two beings were guiding
my destiny. One offers me all I desire; but the other's ever at hand
to bespatter the gifts with filth, so that they're useless to me and
I can't touch them. It's true that life has given me all I asked of
it--but everything's turned out worthless to me.

LADY. You've had everything and yet are not content?

STRANGER. That is the curse....

LADY. Don't say that! But why haven't you desired things that transcend
this life, that can never be sullied?

STRANGER. Because I doubt if there is a beyond.

LADY. But the elves?

STRANGER. Are merely a fairy story. (Pointing to a seat.) Shall we sit
down?

LADY. Yes. Who are you waiting for?

STRANGER. Really, for the post office to open. There's a letter for
me--it's been forwarded on but hasn't reached me. (They sit down.) But
tell me something of yourself now. (The Lady takes up her crochet work.)

LADY. There's nothing to tell.

STRANGER. Strangely enough, I should prefer to think of you like that.
Impersonal, nameless--I only do know one of your names. I'd like to
christen you myself--let me see, what ought you to be called? I've got
it. Eve! (With a gesture towards the wings.) Trumpets! (The funeral
march is heard again.) There it is again! Now I must invent your age,
for I don't know how old you are. From now on you are thirty-four--so
you were born in sixty-four. (Pause.) Now your character, for I don't
know that either. I shall give you a good character, your voice reminds
me of my mother--I mean the idea of a mother, for my mother never
caressed me, though I can remember her striking me. You see, I was
brought up in hate! An eye for an eye--a tooth for a tooth. You see this
scar on my forehead? That comes from a blow my brother gave me with
an axe, after I'd struck him with a stone. I never went to my father's
funeral, because he turned me out of the house when my sister married.
I was born out of wedlock, when my family were bankrupt and in mourning
for an uncle who had taken his life. Now you know my family! That's
the stock I come from. Once I narrowly escaped fourteen years' hard
labour--so I've every reason to thank the elves, though I can't be
altogether pleased with what they've done.

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

STRANGER. Frankly, I don't believe in them; yet they're always making
themselves felt. Are these elves the souls of the unhappy, who still
await redemption? If so, I am the child of an evil spirit. Once I
believed I was near redemption--through a woman. But no mistake could
have been greater: I was plunged into the seventh hell.

LADY. You must be unhappy. But this won't go on always.

STRANGER. Do you think church bells and Holy Water could comfort me?
I've tried them; they only made things worse. I felt like the Devil when
he sees the sign of the cross. (Pause.) Let's talk about you now.

LADY. There's no need. (Pause.) Have you been blamed for misusing your
gifts?

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

LADY. Why did they hate you so?

STRANGER. How should I know! Yet I do! I couldn't endure to see men
suffer. So I kept on saying, and writing, too: free yourselves, I will
help you. And to the poor I said: do not let the rich exploit you.
And to the women: do not allow yourselves to be enslaved by the men.
And--worst of all--to the children: do not obey your parents, if they
are unjust. What followed was impossible to foresee. I found that
everyone was against me: rich and poor, men and women, parents and
children. And then came sickness and poverty, beggary and shame,
divorce, law-suits, exile, solitude, and now.... Tell me, do you think
me mad?

LADY. No.

STRANGER. You must be the only one. But I'm all the more grateful.

LADY (rising). I must leave you now.

STRANGER. You, too?

LADY. And you mustn't stay here.

STRANGER. Where should I go?

LADY. Home. To your work.

STRANGER. But I'm no worker. I'm a writer.

LADY. I know. But I didn't want to hurt you. Creative power is something
given you, that can also taken away. See you don't forfeit yours.

STRANGER. Where are you going?

LADY. Only to a shop.

STRANGER (after a pause). Tell me, are you a believer?

LADY. I am nothing.

STRANGER. All the better: you have a future. How I wish I were your old
blind father, whom you could lead to the market place to sing for his
bread. My tragedy is I cannot grow old that's what happens to children
of the elves, they have big heads and never only cry. I wish I were
someone's dog. I could follow him and never be alone again. I'd get a
meal sometimes, a kick now and then, a pat perhaps, a blow often....

LADY. Now I must go. Good-bye. (She goes out.)

STRANGER (absent-mindedly). Good-bye. (He remains on the seat. He takes
off his hat and wipes his forehead. Then he draws on the ground with his
stick. A BEGGAR enters. He has a strange look and is collecting objects
from the gutter.) White are you picking up, beggar?

BEGGAR. Why call me that? I'm no beggar. Have I asked you for anything?

STRANGER. I beg your pardon. It's so hard to judge men from appearances.

BEGGAR. That's true. For instance, can you guess who I am?

STRANGER. I don't intend to try. It doesn't interest me.

BEGGAR. No one can know that in advance. Interest commonly comes
afterwards--when it's too late. Virtus post nummos!

STRANGER. What? Do beggars know Latin?

BEGGAR. You see, you're interested already. Omne tulit punctum qui
miscuit utile dulci. I have always succeeded in everything I've
undertaken, because I've never attempted anything. I should like to call
myself Polycrates, who found the gold ring in the fish's stomach. Life
has given me all I asked of it. But I never asked anything; I grew tired
of success and threw the ring away. Yet, now I've grown old I regret it.
I search for it in the gutters; but as the search takes time, in default
of my gold ring I don't disdain a few cigar stumps....

STRANGER. I don't know whether this beggar's cynical or mad.

BEGGAR. I don't know either.

STRANGER. Do you know who I am?

BEGGAR. No. And it doesn't interest me.

STRANGER. Well, interest commonly comes afterwards.... You see you tempt
me to take the words out of your mouth. And that's the same thing as
picking up other people's cigars.

BEGGAR. So you won't follow my example?

STRANGER. What's that scar on your forehead?

BEGGAR. I got it from a near relation.

STRANGER. Now you frighten me! Are you real? May I touch you? (He
touches his arm.) There's no doubt of it.... Would you deign to accept
a small coin in return for a promise to seek Polycrates' ring in another
part of the town? (He hands him a coin.) Post nummos virtus.... Another
echo. You must go at once.

BEGGAR. I will. But you've given me far too much. I'll return
three-quarters of it. Now we owe one another nothing but friendship.

STRANGER. Friendship! Am I a friend of yours?

BEGGAR. Well, I am of yours. When one's alone in the world one can't be
particular.

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

BEGGAR. Only too pleased! But when we meet again I'll have a word of
welcome for you. (Exit.)

STRANGER (sitting down again and drawing in the dust with his stick).
Sunday afternoon! A long, dank, sad time, after the usual Sunday dinner
of roast beef, cabbage and watery potatoes. Now the older people are
testing, the younger playing chess and smoking. The servants have gone
to church and the shops are shut. This frightful afternoon, this day of
rest, when there's nothing to engage the soul, when it's as hard to meet
a friend as to get into a wine shop. (The LADY comes back again, she
is noun wearing a flower at her breast.) Strange! I can't speak without
being contradicted at once!

LADY. So you're still here?

STRANGER. Whether I sit here, or elsewhere, and write in the sand
doesn't seem to me to matter--as long so I write in the sand.

LADY. What are you writing? May I see?

STRANGER. I think you'll find: Eve 1864.... No, don't step on it.

LADY. What happens then?

STRANGER. A disaster for you... and for me.

LADY. You know that?

STRANGER. Yes, and more. That the Christmas rose you're wearing is a
mandragora. Its symbolical meaning is malice and calumny; but it was
once used in medicine for the healing of madness. Will you give it me?

LADY (hesitating). As medicine?

STRANGER. Of course. (Pause.) Have you read my books?

LADY. You know I have. And that it's you I have to thank for giving me
freedom and a belief in human rights and human dignity.

STRANGER. Then you haven't read the recent ones?

LADY. No. And if they're not like the earlier ones I don't want to.

STRANGER. Then promise never to open another book of mine.

LADY. Let me think that over. Very well, I promise.

STRANGER. Good! But see you keep your promise. Remember what happened
to Bluebeard's wife when curiosity tempted her into the forbidden
chamber....

LADY. You see, already you make demands like those of a Bluebeard. What
you don't see, or have long since forgotten, is that I'm married, and
that my husband's a doctor, and that he admires your work. So that his
house is open to you, if you wish to be made welcome there.

STRANGER. I've done all I can to forget it. I've expunged it from my
memory so that it no longer has any reality for me.

LADY. If that's so, will you come home with me to-night?

STRANGER. No. Will you come with me?

LADY. Where?

STRANGER. Anywhere! I have no home, only a trunk. Money I sometimes
have--though not often. It's the one thing life has capriciously refused
me, perhaps because I never desired it intensely enough. (The LADY
shakes her head.) Well? What are you thinking?

LADY. I'm surprised I'm not angry with you. But you're not serious.

STRANGER. Whether I am or not's all one to me. Ah! There's the organ! It
won't be long now before the drink shops open.

LADY. Is it true _you_ drink?

STRANGER. Yes. A great deal! Wine makes my soul from her prison, up into
the firmament, where she what has never yet been seen, and hears what
men never yet heard....

LADY. And the day after?

STRANGER. I have the most delightful scruples of conscience! I
experience the purifying emotions of guilt and repentance. I enjoy the
sufferings of the body, whilst my soul hovers like smoke about my head.
It is as if one were suspended between Life and Death, when the spirit
feels that she has already opened her pinions and could fly aloft, if
she would.

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

STRANGER. No. Not into church! It depresses me because I feel I don't
belong there.... That I'm an unhappy soul and that it's as impossible
for me to re-enter as to become a child again.

LADY. You feel all that... already?

STRANGER. Yes. I've got that far. I feel as if I lay hacked in pieces
and were being slowly melted in Medea's cauldron. Either I shall be sent
to the soap-boilers, or arise renewed from my own dripping! It depends
on Medea's skill!

LADY. That sounds like the word of an oracle. We must see if you can't
become a child again.

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

LADY. Exactly! Wait here for me whilst I go into the church. If the cafe
were open I'd ask you please not to drink. But luckily it's shut.

(The LADY exits. The STRANGER sits down again and draws in the sand.
Enter six funeral attendants in brown with some mourners. One of them
carries a banner with the insignia of the Carpenters, draped in brown
crepe; another a large axe decorated with spruce, a third a cushion with
a chairman's mallet. They stop outside the cafe and wait.)

STRANGER. Excuse me, whose funeral have you been attending?

FIRST MOURNER. A house-breaker's. (He imitates the ticking of a clock.)

STRANGER. A real house-breaker? Or the insect sort, that lodges in the
woodwork and goes 'tick-tick'?

FIRST MOURNER. Both--but mainly the insect sort. What do they call them?

STRANGER (to himself). He wants to fool me into saying the death-watch
beetle. So I won't. You mean a burglar?

SECOND MOURNER. No. (The clock is again heard ticking.)

STRANGER. Are you trying to frighten me? Or does the dead man work
miracles? In that case I'd better explain that my nerves are good, and
that I don't believe in miracles. But I do find it strange that the
mourners wear brown. Why not black? It's cheap and suitable.

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

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

FIRST MOURNER. Vine leaves.

STRANGER. I thought it would not be spruce! The cafe's opening, at last!
(The Cafe opens, the STRANGER sits at a table and is served with wine.
The MOURNERS sit at the other tables.) They must have been glad to be
rid of him, if the mourners start drinking as soon as the funeral's
over.

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

STRANGER. And who probably drank?

SECOND MOURNER. Yes.

THIRD MOURNER. And let others support his wife and children.

STRANGER. He shouldn't have done so. Is that why his friends speak so
well of him now? Please don't shake my table when I'm drinking.

SECOND MOURNER. When I'm drinking, I don't mind.

STRANGER. Well, I do. There's a great difference between us! (The
MOURNERS whisper together. The BEGGAR comes back.) Here's the beggar
again!

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

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

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

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

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

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

STRANGER. No. The whole thing's too distressing. Even without paying
taxes he has the right to enjoy life's small pleasures.

LANDLORD. So you're the kind who'd absolve vagabonds from their duties?

STRANGER. This is too much! I'd have you know that I'm a famous man.
(The LANDLORD and MOURNERS laugh.)

LANDLORD. Infamous, probably! Let me look at the police list, and see if
the description tallies: thirty-eight, brown hair, moustache, blue eyes;
no settled employment, means unknown; married, but has deserted his wife
and children; well known for revolutionary views on social questions:
gives impression he is not in full possession of his faculties.... It
fits!

STRANGER (rising, pale and taken aback). What?

LANDLORD. Yes. It fits all right.

BEGGAR. Perhaps he's on the list. And not me!

LANDLORD. It looks like it. In any case, both of you had better clear
out.

BEGGAR (to the STRANGER). Shall we?

STRANGER. We? This begins to look like a conspiracy.

(The church bells are heard. The sun comes out and illuminates the
coloured rose window above the church door, which is now opened,
disclosing the interior. The organ is heard and the choir singing Ave
Maris Stella.)

LADY (coming from the church). Where are you? What are you doing? Why
did you call me? Must you hang on a woman's skirts like a child?

STRANGER. I'm afraid now. Things are happening that have no natural
explanation.

LADY. But you were afraid of nothing. Not even death!

STRANGER. Death... no. But of something else, the unknown.

LADY. Listen. Give me your hand. You're ill, I'll take you to a doctor.
Come!

STRANGER. If you like. But tell me: is this carnival, or... reality?

LADY. It's real enough.

STRANGER. This beggar must be a wretched fellow. Is it true he resembles
me?

LADY. He will, if you go on drinking. Now go to the post office and get
your letter. And then come with me.

STRANGER. No, I won't. It'll only be about lawsuits.

LADY. If not?

STRANGER. Malicious gossip.

LADY. Well, do as you wish. No one can escape his fate. At this moment
I feel a higher power is sitting in judgment on us and has made a
decision.

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

LADY. Tell me, what have you done to me? In the church I found I
couldn't pray. A light on the altar was extinguished and an icy wind
blew in my face when I heard you call me.

STRANGER. I didn't call you. But I wanted you.

LADY. You're not as weak as you pretend. You have great strength; and
I'm afraid of you....

STRANGER. When I'm alone I've no strength at all; but if I can find
a single companion I grow strong. I shall be strong now; and so I'll
follow you.

LADY. Perhaps you can free me from the werewolf.

STRANGER. Who's he?

LADY. That's what I call him.

STRANGER. Count on me. Killing dragons, freeing princesses, defeating
werewolves--that is Life!

LADY. Then come, my liberator!

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


SCENE II

DOCTOR'S HOUSE

[Courtyard enclosed on three sides by a single-storied house with a
tiled roof. Small windows in all three facades. Right, verandah with
glass doors. Left, climbing roses and bee-hives outside the windows. In
the middle of the courtyard a woodpile in the form of a cupola. A well
beside it. The top of a walnut tree is seen above the central facade
of the house. In the corner, right, a garden gate. By the well a large
tortoise. On right, entrance below to a wine-cellar. An ice-chest and
dust-bin. The DOCTOR'S SISTER enters from the verandah with a telegram.]

SISTER. Now misfortune will fall on your house.

DOCTOR. When has it not, my dear sister?

SISTER. This time.... Ingeborg's coming and bringing... guess whom?

DOCTOR. Wait! I know, because I've long foreseen this, even desired it,
for he's a writer I've always admired. I've learnt much from him and
often wished to meet him. Now he's coming, you say. Where did Ingeborg
meet him?

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

DOCTOR. I've often wondered whether this man was the boy of the same
name who was my friend at school. I hope not; for he seemed one that
fortune would treat harshly. And in a life-time he'll have given his
unhappy tendencies full scope.

SISTER. Don't let him come here. Go out. Say you're engaged.

DOCTOR. No. One can't escape one's fate.

SISTER. But you've never bowed your head to anyone! Why crawl before
this spectre, and call him fate?

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

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

DOCTOR. You think so? Because, when I made her break off her engagement
I held out false hopes to her of a life of freedom, instead of the
slavery she'd known. Besides, I could never love her if I were in a
position to give her orders.

SISTER. You'd be friends with your enemy?

DOCTOR. Oh...!

SISTER. Will you let her bring someone into the house who'll destroy
you? If you only knew how I hate that man.

DOCTOR. I do. His last book's terrible; and shows a certain lack of
mental balance.

SISTER. They ought to shut him up.

DOCTOR. Many people have said so, but I don't think him bad enough.

SISTER. Because you're eccentric yourself, and live in daily contact
with a woman who's mad.

DOCTOR. I admit abnormality has always had a strong attraction for me,
and originality is at least not commonplace. (The syren of a steamer is
heard.) What was that?

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

DOCTOR. I ought to want to; but I'm held fast. (Pause.) From here I can
see his portrait in my study. The sunlight throws a shadow on it that
changes it completely. It makes him look like.... Horrible! You see what
I mean?

HATER. The devil! Come away!

DOCTOR. I can't.

SISTER. Then at least defend yourself.

DOCTOR. I always do. But this time I feel a thunder storm gathering. How
often have I tried to fly, and not been able to. It's as if the earth
were iron and I a compass needle. If misfortune comes, it's not of my
fee choice. They've come in at the door.

SISTER. I heard nothing.

DOCTOR. I did! Now I can see them, too! He _is_ the friend of my
boyhood. He got into trouble at school; but I was blamed and punished.
He was nick-named Caesar, I don't know why.

SISTER. And this man....

DOCTOR. That's what always happens. Caesar! (The LADY comes in.)

LADY. I've brought a visitor.

DOCTOR. I know, and he's welcome.

LADY. I left him in the house, to wash.

DOCTOR. Well, are you satisfied with your conquest?

LADY. I think he's the unhappiest man I ever met.

DOCTOR. That's saying a great deal.

LADY. Yes, there's enough unhappiness for all of us.

DOCTOR. There is! (To his SISTER.) Would you ask him to come out here?
(His SISTER goes out.) Have you had an interesting time?

LADY. Yes. I met a number of strange people. Have you had many patients?

DOCTOR. No. The consulting room's empty this morning. I think the
practice is going down.

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

DOCTOR (without reproach). Yes, and the bees should be killed, too; and
the fruit in the garden picked. But I've no time to do it.

LADY. You're tired.

DOCTOR. Tired of everything.

LADY (without bitterness). And you've a wife who can't even help you.

DOCTOR (kindly). You mustn't say that, if I don't think so.

LADY (turning towards the verandah). Here he is!

(The STRANGER comes in through the verandah, dressed in a way that makes
him look younger than before. He has an air of forced candour. He seems
to recognise the doctor, and shrinks back, but recovers himself.)

DOCTOR. You're very welcome.

STRANGER. It's kind of you.

DOCTOR. You bring good weather with you. And we need it; for it's rained
for six weeks.

STRANGER. Not for seven? It usually rains for seven if it rains on St.
Swithin's. But that's later on--how foolish of me!

DOCTOR. As you're used to town life I'm afraid you'll find the country
dull.

STRANGER. Oh no. I'm no more at home there than here. Excuse me asking,
but haven't we met before--when we were boys?

DOCTOR. Never.

(The LADY has sat down at the table and is crocheting.)

STRANGER. Are you sure?

DOCTOR. Perfectly. I've followed your literary career from the first
with great interest; as I know my wife has told you. So that if we _had_
met I'd certainly have remembered your name. (Pause.) Well, now you can
see how a country doctor lives!

STRANGER. If you could guess what the life of a so-called liberator's
like, you wouldn't envy him.

DOCTOR. I can imagine it; for I've seen how men love their chains.
Perhaps that's as it should be.

STRANGER (listening). Strange. Who's playing in the village?

DOCTOR. I don't know. Do you, Ingeborg?

LADY. No.

STRANGER. Mendelssohn's Funeral March! It pursues me. I never know
whether I've heard it or not.

DOCTOR. Do you suffer from hallucinations?

STRANGER. No. But I'm pursued by trivial incidents. Can't you hear
anyone playing?

DOCTOR. Yes.

LADY. Someone _is_ playing. Mendelssohn.

DOCTOR. Not surprising.

STRANGER. No. But that it should be played precisely at the right place,
at the right time.... (He gets up.)

DOCTOR. To reassure you, I'll ask my sister. (Exit through the
verandah.)

STRANGER (to the LADY). I'm stifling here. I can't pass a night under
this roof. Your husband looks like a werewolf and in his presence you
turn into a pillar of salt. Murder has been done in this house; the
place is haunted. I shall escape as soon as I can find an excuse.

(The DOCTOR comes back.)

DOCTOR. It's the girl at the post office.

STRANGER (nervously). Good. That's all right. You've an original house.
That pile of wood, for instance.

DOCTOR. Yes. It's been struck by lightning twice.

STRANGER. Terrible! And you still keep it?

DOCTOR. That's why. I've made it higher out of defiance; and to give
shade in summer. It's like the prophet's gourd. But in the autumn it
must go into the wood shed.

STRANGER (looking round). Christmas roses, too! Where did you get them?
They're flowering in summer! Everything's upside down here.

DOCTOR. They were given me by a patient. He's not quite sane.

STRANGER. Is he staying in the house?

DOCTOR. Yes. He's a quiet soul, who ponders on the purposelessness
of nature. He thinks it foolish for hellebore to grow in the snow and
freeze; so he puts the plants in the cellar and beds them out in the
spring.

STRANGER. But a madman... in the house. Most unpleasant!

DOCTOR. He's very harmless.

STRANGER. How did he lose his wits?

DOCTOR. Who can tell. It's a disease of the mind, not the body.

STRANGER. Tell me--is he here--now?

DOCTOR. Yes. He's free to wander in the garden and arrange creation. But
if his presence disquiets you, we can shut him up.

STRANGER. Why aren't such poor devils put out of--their misery?

DOCTOR. It's hard to know whether they're ripe....

STRANGER. What for?

DOCTOR. For what's to come.

STRANGER. There _is_ nothing. (Pause.)

DOCTOR. Who knows!

STRANGER. I feel strangely uneasy. Have you medical material...
specimens... dead bodies?

DOCTOR. Oh yes. In the ice-box--for the authorities, you know. (He pulls
out an arm and leg.) Look here.

STRANGER. No. Too much like Bluebeard!

DOCTOR (sharply). What do you mean by that? (Looking at the LADY.) Do
you think I kill my wives?

STRANGER. Oh no. It's clear you don't. Is this house haunted, too?

DOCTOR. Oh yes. Ask my wife.(He disappears behind the wood pile where
neither the STRANGER nor the LADY can see him.)

LADY. You needn't whisper, my husband's deaf. Though he can lip read.

STRANGER. Then let me say that I've never known a more painful
half-hour. We exchange the merest commonplaces, because none of us has
the courage to say what he thinks. I suffered so that the idea came to
me of opening my veins to get relief. But now I'd like to tell him the
truth and have done with it. Shall we say to his face that we mean to go
away, and that you've had enough of his foolishness?

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

STRANGER. How well brought up you are! (The DOCTOR now becomes visible
to the STRANGER and the LADY, who continue their conversation.) Come
away with me, before the sun goes down. (Pause.) Tell me, why did you
kiss me yesterday?

LADY. But....

STRANGER. Supposing he could hear what we say! I don't trust him.

DOCTOR. What shall we do to amuse our guest?

LADY. He doesn't care much for amusement. His life's not been happy.

(The DOCTOR blows a whistle. The MADMAN comes into the garden. He wears
a laurel wreath and his clothes are curious.)

DOCTOR. Come here, Caesar.

STRANGER (displeased). What? Is he called Caesar?

DOCTOR. No. It's a nickname I gave him, to remind me of a boy I was at
school with.

STRANGER (disturbed). Oh?

DOCTOR. He was involved in a strange incident, and I got all the blame.

LADY (to the STRANGER). You'd never believe a boy could have been so
corrupt.

(The STRANGER looks distressed. The MADMAN comes nearer.)

DOCTOR. Caesar, come and make your bow to our famous writer.

CAESAR. Is this the great man?

LADY (to the DOCTOR). Why did you let him come, if it annoys our guest?

DOCTOR. Caesar, you must behave. Or I shall have to whip you.

CAESAR. Yes. He is Caesar, but he's not great. He doesn't even know
which came first, the hen or the egg. But I do.

STRANGER (to the LADY). I shall go. Is this a trap? What am I to think?
In a minute he'll unloose his bees to amuse me.

LADY. Trust me... whatever happens! And turn your face away when you
speak.

STRANGER. This werewolf never leaves us.

DOCTOR (looking at his watch). You must excuse me for about an hour.
I've a patient to visit. I hope the time won't hang on your hands.

STRANGER. I'm used to waiting, for what never comes....

DOCTOR (to the MADMAN). Come along, Caesar. I must lock you up in the
cellar. (He goes out with the MADMAN.)

STRANGER (to the LADY). What does that mean? Someone's pursuing me! You
told me your husband was well disposed towards me, and I believed you.
But he can't open his mouth without wounding me. Every word pricks like
a goad. Then this funeral march... it's really being played! And here,
once more, Christmas roses! Why does everything follow in an eternal
round? Dead bodies, beggars, madmen, human destinies and childhood
memories? Come away. Let me free you from this hell.

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

STRANGER. You mean in my feelings?

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

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

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

STRANGER (hesitating). I don't like leaving the back way. I'd rather
have fought it out with him here.

LADY. Quick!

STRANGER. Won't you come with me?

LADY. Yes. But then I must go first. (She turns and blows a kiss towards
the verandah.) My poor werewolf!


SCENE III

ROOM IN AN HOTEL

[The STRANGER enters followed by the LADY. A WAITER.]

STRANGER (who is carrying a suitcase). Is no other room free?

WAITER. No.

STRANGER. I don't want this one.

LADY. But it's the only one: the other hotels are all full.

STRANGER (to the WAITER). You can go. (The LADY sinks on to a chair
without taking off her hat and coat.) What is it you want?

LADY. I wish you'd kill me.

STRANGER. I don't wonder! Thrown out of hotels, because we're not
married, and pestered by the police, we're forced to come to this place,
the last I'd have wished. To this very room, number eight.... Someone
must be against me!

LADY. Is this eight?

STRANGER. What? Have you been here before?

LADY. Have you?

STRANGER. Yes.

LADY. Then let's get away. Onto the road, into the woods. It doesn't
matter where.

STRANGER. I should like to. But after this terrible time I'm as tired as
you are. I felt this was to be our journey's end. I resisted, I tried to
go in the opposite direction, but trains were late, or we missed them,
and we had to come here. To this room! The devil's in it--at least what
I call the devil. But I'll be even with him yet.

LADY. It seems we'll never find peace on earth again.

STRANGER. Nothing's been changed. The dying Christmas roses. (Looking
at two pictures.) There he is again. And that's the Hotel Breuer in
Montreux. I've stayed there, too.

LADY. Did you go to the post office?

STRANGER. I thought you'd ask me that. I did. And as an answer to five
letters and three telegrams I found a telegram saying that my publisher
had gone away for a fortnight.

LADY. Then we're lost.

STRANGER. Very nearly.

LADY. The waiter will be back in five minutes and ask for our passports.
Then the landlord will come up and tell us to go.

STRANGER. Then only one course remains.

LADY. Two.

STRANGER. The second's impossible.

LADY. What is the second?

STRANGER. To go to your parents in the country.

LADY. You're beginning to read my thoughts.

STRANGER. We no longer have any secrets from one another.

LADY. Then the whole dream's at an end.

STRANGER. It maybe.

LADY. You must telegraph again.

STRANGER. I ought to, I know. But I can't stir from here. I no longer
believe that what I do can succeed. Someone's paralysed me.

LADY. And me! We decided never to speak of the past and yet we drag it
with us. Look at this carpet. Those flowers seem to form....

STRANGER. Him! It's him. He's everywhere. How many hundred times has
he.... Yet I see someone else in the pattern of the table cloth. No,
it's an illusion! Any moment now I'll hear my funeral march--then
everything will be complete. (Listening.) There!

LADY. I hear nothing.

STRANGER. Am I... am I....

LADY. Shall we go home?

STRANGER. The last place. The worst of all! To arrive like an
adventurer, a beggar. Impossible!

LADY. Yes, I know, but.... No, it would be too much. To bring shame,
disgrace and sorrow to the old people, and to see you humiliated, and
you me! We could never respect one another again.

STRANGER. It would be worse than death. Yet I feel it's inevitable, and
I begin to long for it, to get it over quickly, if it must be.

LADY (taking out her work). But I don't want to be reviled in your
presence. We must find another way. If only we were married--and divorce
would be easy, because my former marriage isn't recognised by the laws
of the country in which it was contracted.... All we need do is to go
away and be married by the same priest... but that would be wounding for
you!

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

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

STRANGER. I've foreseen this and am ready. Ready for everything. If I
can't overcome the unseen, I can show you how much I can endure.... You
must pawn your jewellery. I can buy it back when my publisher gets home,
if he's not drowned bathing or killed in a railway accident. A man as
ambitious as I must be ready to sacrifice his honour first of all.

LADY. As we're agreed, wouldn't it be better to give up this room? Oh,
God! He's coming now.

STRANGER. Let's go. We'll run the gauntlet of waiters, maids and
servants. Red with shame and pale with indignation. Animals have their
lairs to hide in, but we are forced to flaunt our shame. (Pause.) Let
down your veil.

LADY. So this is freedom!

STRANGER. And I... am the liberator. (Exeunt.)


SCENE IV

BY THE SEA

[A hut on a cliff by the sea. Outside it a table with chairs. The
STRANGER and the LADY are dressed in less sombre clothing and look
younger than in the previous scene. The LADY is doing crochet work.]

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

LADY. What do you fear?

STRANGER. That this will not last long.

LADY. Why do you think so?

STRANGER. I don't know. I believe it must end suddenly, terribly.
There's something deceptive even the sunshine and the stillness. I feel
that happiness if not part of my destiny.

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

STRANGER. What does that matter? Fate spins the web; once more I
hear the mallet fall and the chairs being pushed back from the
table--judgment has been pronounced. Yet that must have happened before
I was born, because even in childhood I began to serve my sentence.
There's no moment in my life on which can look back with happiness.

LADY. Unfortunate man! Yet you've had everything you wished from life!

STRANGER. Everything. Unluckily I forgot to wish for money.

LADY. You're thinking of that again.

STRANGER. Are you surprised?

LADY. Quiet!

STRANGER. What is it you're always working at? You sit there like one of
the Fates and draw the threads through your fingers. But go on. The most
beautiful of sights is a woman bending over her work, or over her child.
What are you making?

LADY. Nothing. Crochet work.

STRANGER. It looks like a network of nerves and knots on which you've
fixed your thoughts. The brain must look like that--from within.

LADY. If only I thought of half the things you imagine.... But I think
of nothing.

STRANGER. Perhaps that's why I feel so contented when I'm with you. Why,
I find you so perfect that I can no longer imagine life without you! Now
the clouds have blown away. Now the sky is clear! The wind soft--feel
how it caresses us! This is Life! Yes, now I live. And I feel my spirit
growing, spreading, becoming tenuous, infinite. I am everywhere, in the
ocean which is my blood, in the rocks that are my bones, in the trees,
in the flowers; and my head reaches up to the heavens. I can survey the
whole universe. I _am_ the universe. And I feel the power of the Creator
within me, for I am He! I wish I could grasp the all in my hand and
refashion it into something more perfect, more lasting, more beautiful.
I want all creation and created beings to be happy, to be born without
pain, live without suffering, and die in quiet content. Eve! Die with me
now! This moment, for the next will bring sorrow again.

LADY. I'm not ready to die.

STRANGER. Why not?

LADY. I believe there are things I've not yet done. Perhaps I've not
suffered enough.

STRANGER. Is that the purpose of life?

LADY. It seems to be. (Pause.) Now I want to ask one thing of you.

STRANGER. Well?

LADY. Don't blaspheme against heaven again, or compare yourself with the
Creator, for then you remind me of Caesar at home.

STRANGER (excitedly). Caesar! How can you say that...?

LADY. I'm sorry if I've said anything I shouldn't. It was foolish of me
to say 'at home.' Forgive me.

STRANGER. You were thinking that Caesar and I resemble one another in
our blasphemies?

LADY. Of course not.

STRANGER. Strange. I believe you when you say you don't mean to hurt me;
yet you _do_ hurt me, as all the others do. Why?

LADY. Because you're over-sensitive.

STRANGER. You say that again! Do you think I've sensitive hidden places?

LADY. No. I didn't mean that. And now the spirits of suspicion and
discord are coming between us. Drive them away--at once.

STRANGER. You mustn't say I blaspheme if I use the well-known words:
See, we are like unto the gods.

LADY. But if that's so, why can't you help yourself, or us?

STRANGER. Can't I? Wait. As yet we've only seen the beginning.

LADY. If the end is like it, heaven help us!

STRANGER. I know what you fear; and I meant to hold back a pleasant
surprise. But now I won't torment you longer. (He takes out a registered
letter, not yet opened.) Look!

LADY. The money's come!

STRANGER. This morning. Who can destroy me now?

LADY. Don't speak like that. You know who could.

STRANGER. Who?

LADY. He who punishes the arrogance of men.

STRANGER. And their courage. That especially. This was my Achilles'
heel; I bore with everything, except this fearful lack of money.

LADY. May I ask how much they've sent?

STRANGER. I don't know. I've not opened the letter. But I do know about
how much to expect. I'd better look and see. (He opens the letter.)
What? Only an account showing I'm owed nothing! There's something
uncanny in this.

LADY. I begin to think so, too.

STRANGER. I know I'm damned. But I'm ready to hurl the curse back at him
who so nobly cursed me.... (He throws up the letter.) With a curse of my
own.

LADY. Don't. You frighten me.

STRANGER. Fear me, so long as you don't despise me! The challenge
has been thrown down; now you shall see a conflict between two great
opponents. (He opens his coat and waistcoat and looks threateningly
aloft.) Strike me with your lightning if you dare! Frighten me with your
thunder if you can!

LADY. Don't speak like that.

STRANGER. I will. Who dares break in on my dream of love? Who tears the
cup from my lips; and the woman from my arms? Those who envy me, be
they gods or devils! Little bourgeois gods who parry sword thrusts with
pin-pricks from behind, who won't stand up to their man, but strike at
him with unpaid bills. A backstairs way of discrediting a master before
his servants. They never attack, never draw, merely soil and decry!
Powers, lords and masters! All are the same!

LADY. May heaven not punish you.

STRANGER. Heaven's blue and silent. The ocean's silent and stupid.
Listen, I can hear a poem--that's what I call it when an idea begins to
germinate in my mind. First the rhythm; this time like the thunder
of hooves and the jingle of spurs and accoutrements. But there's a
fluttering too, like a sail flapping.... Banners!

LADY. No. It's the wind. Can't you hear it in the trees?

STRANGER. Quiet! They're riding over a bridge, a wooden bridge. There's
no water in the brook, only pebbles. Wait! Now I can hear them, men and
women, saying a rosary. The angels' greeting. Now I can see--on what
you're working--a large kitchen, with white-washed walls, it has three
small latticed windows, with flowers in them. In the left-hand corner a
hearth, on the right a table with wooden seats. And above the table, in
the corner, hangs a crucifix, with a lamp burning below. The ceiling's
of blackened beams, and dried mistletoe hangs on the wall.

LADY (frightened). Where can you see all that?

STRANGER. On your work.

LADY. Can you see people there?

STRANGER. A very old man's sitting at the table, bent over a game bag,
his hands clasped in prayer. A woman, so longer young, kneels on the
floor. Now once more I hear the angels' greeting, as if far away. But
those two in the kitchen are as motionless as figures of wax. A veil
shrouds everything.... No, that was no poem! (Waking.) It was something
else.

LADY. It was reality! The kitchen at home, where you've never set foot.
That old man was my grandfather, the forester, and the woman my mother!
They were praying for us! It was six o'clock and the servants were
saying a rosary outside, as they always do.

STRANGER. You make me uneasy. Is this the beginning of second sight?
Still, it was beautiful. A snow-white room, with flowers and mistletoe.
But why should they pray for us?

LADY. Why indeed! Have we done wrong?

STRANGER. What is wrong?

LADY. I've read there's no such thing. And yet... I long to see my
mother; not my father, for he turned me out as he did her.

STRANGER. Why should he have turned your mother out?

LADY. Who can say? The children least of all. Let us go to my home. I
long to.

STRANGER. To the lion's den, the snake pit? One more or less makes no
matter. I'll do it for you, but not like the Prodigal Son. No, you shall
see that I can go through fire and water for your sake.

LADY. How do you know...?

STRANGER. I can guess.

LADY. And can you guess that the path to where my parents live in the
mountains is too steep for carts to use?

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

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

STRANGER. I'm ready--for anything!

(The LADY kisses him on the forehead and makes the sign of the cross
simply, timidly and without gestures.)

LADY. Then come!


SCENE V

ON THE ROAD

[A landscape with hills; a chapel, right, in the far distance on a rise.
The road, flanked by fruit trees, winds across the background. Between
the trees hills can be seen on which are crucifixes, chapels and
memorials to the victims of accidents. In the foreground a sign post
with the legend, 'Beggars not allowed in this parish.' The STRANGER and
the LADY.]

LADY. You're tired.

STRANGER. I won't deny it. But it's humiliating to confess I'm hungry,
because the money's gone. I never thought that would happen to me.

LADY. It seems we must be prepared for anything, for I think we've
fallen into disfavour. My shoe's split, and I could weep at our having
to go like this, looking like beggars.

STRANGER (pointing to the signpost). And beggars are not allowed in this
parish. Why must that be stuck up in large letters here?

LADY. It's been there as long as I can remember. Think of it, I've not
been back since I was a child. And In those days I found the way short
and the hills lower. The trees, too, were smaller, and I think I used to
hear birds singing.

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

LADY. My grandfather coming back from shooting. A good old man. Let's go
on and reach the house by dark.

STRANGER. Is it still far?

LADY. No. Only across the hills and over the river.

STRANGER. Is that the river I hear?

LADY. The river by which I was born and brought up. I was eighteen
before I crossed over to this bank, to see what was in the blue of the
distance.... Now I've seen.

STRANGER. You're weeping!

LADY. Poor old man! When I got into the boat, he said: My child, beyond
lies the world. When you've seen enough, come back to your mountains,
and they will hide you. Now I've seen enough. Enough!

STRANGER. Let's go. It's beginning to grow dusk already. (They pick up
their travelling capes and go on.)


SCENE VI

IN A RAVINE

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

[On the rise of the curtain the SMITH is at the smithy door and the
MILLER'S WIFE at the door of the mill. When the LADY enters they sign
to one another and disappear. The clothing of both the LADY and the
STRANGER is torn and shabby.]

STRANGER. They're hiding, from us, probably.

LADY. I don't think so.

STRANGER. What a strange place! Everything seems conspire to arouse
disquiet. What's that broom there? And the horn with ointment? Probably
because it's their usual place, but it makes me think of witchcraft.
Why is the smithy black and the mill white? Because one's sooty and the
other covered with flour; yet when I saw the blacksmith by the light of
his forge and the white miller's wife, it reminded me of an old poem.
Look at those giant faces.... There's your werewolf from whom I saved
you. There he is, in profile, see!

LADY. Yes, but it's only the rock.

STRANGER. Only the rock, and yet it's he.

LADY. Shall I tell you why we can see him?

STRANGER. You mean--it's our conscience? Which pricks us when we're
hungry and tired, and is silent when we've eaten and rested. It's
horrible to arrive in rags. Our clothes are torn from climbing through
the brambles. Someone's fighting against me.

LADY. Why did you challenge him?

STRANGER. Because I want to fight in the open; not battle with unpaid
bills and empty purses. Anyhow: here's my last copper. The devil take
it, if there is one! (He throws it into the brook.)

LADY. Oh! We could have paid the ferry with it. Now we'll have to talk
of money when we reach home.

STRANGER. When can we talk of anything else?

LADY. That's because you've despised it.

STRANGER. As I've despised everything....

LADY. But not everything's despicable. Some things are good.

STRANGER. I've never seen them.

LADY. Then follow me and you will.

STRANGER. I'll follow you. (He hesitates when passing the smithy.)

LADY (who has gone on ahead). Are you frightened of fire?

STRANGER. No, but... (The horn is heard in the distance. He hurries past
the smithy after the LADY.)


SCENE VII

IN A KITCHEN

[A large kitchen with whitewashed walls. Three windows in the corner,
right, so arranged that two are at the back and one in the right wall.
The windows are small and deeply recessed; in the recesses there are
flower pots. The ceiling is beamed and black with soot. In the left
corner a large range with utensils of copper, iron and tin, and wooden
vessels. In the corner, right, a crucifix with a lamp. Beneath it a
four-cornered table with benches. Bunches of mistletoe on the walls.
A door at the back. The Poorhouse can be seen outside, and through the
window at the back the church. Near the fire bedding for dogs and a
table with food for the poor.]

[The OLD MAN is sitting at the table beneath the crucifix, with his
hands clasped and a game bag before him. He is a strongly-built man of
over eighty with white hair and along beard, dressed as a forester. The
MOTHER is kneeling on the floor; she is grey-haired and nearly fifty;
her dress is of black-and-white material. The voices of men, women and
children can be clearly heard singing the last verse of the Angels'
Greeting in chorus. 'Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us poor sinners,
now and in the hour of death. Amen.']

OLD MAN and MOTHER. Amen!

MOTHER. Now I'll tell you, Father. They saw two vagabonds by the river.
Their clothing was torn and dirty, for they'd been in the water. And
when it came to paying the ferryman, they'd no money. Now they're drying
their clothes in the ferryman's hut.

OLD MAN. Let them stay there.

MOTHER. Don't forbid a beggar your house. He might be an angel.

OLD MAN. True. Let them come in.

MOTHER. I'll put food for them on the table for the poor. Do you mind
that?

OLD MAN. No.

MOTHER. Shall I give them cider?

OLD MAN. Yes. And you can light the fire; they'll be cold.

MOTHER. There's hardly time. But I will, if you wish it, Father.

OLD MAN (looking out of the window). I think you'd better.

MOTHER. What are you looking at?

OLD MAN. The river; it's rising. And I'm asking myself, as I've done for
seventy years--when I shall reach the sea.

MOTHER. You're sad to-night, Father.

OLD MAN.... et introibo ad altare Dei: ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem
meam. Yes. I do feel sad.... Deus, Deus meus: quare tristis es anima
mea, et quare conturbas me.

MOTHER. Spera in Deo....

(The Maid comes in, and signs to the MOTHER, who goes over to her. They
whisper together and the maid goes out again.)

OLD MAN. I heard what you said. O God! Must I bear that too!

MOTHER. You needn't see them. You can go up to your room.

OLD MAN. No. It shall be a penance. But why come like this: as
vagabonds?

MOTHER. Perhaps they lost their way and have had much to endure.

OLD MAN. But to bring her husband! Is she lost to shame?

MOTHER. You know Ingeborg's queer nature. She thinks all she does is
fitting, if not right. Have you ever seen her ashamed, or suffer from a
rebuff? I never have. Yet she's not without shame; on the contrary. And
everything she does, however questionable, seems natural when she does
it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OLD MAN. If that's true, you're welcome! I've a long and stormy life
behind me, and at last I've found a certain peace in solitude. I beg you
not to trouble it.

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

OLD MAN. That's not the answer I wanted; for we all need one another. I
perhaps need you. No one can know, young man.

LADY. Grandfather!

OLD MAN. Yes, my child. I shan't wish you happiness, for there's no such
thing; but I wish you strength to bear your destiny. Now I'll leave you
for a little. Your mother will look after you. (He goes out.)

LADY (to her mother). Did you lay that table for us, Mother?

MOTHER. No, it's a mistake, as you can imagine.

LADY. I know we look wretched. We were lost in the mountains, and if
grandfather hadn't blown his horn...

MOTHER. Your grandfather gave up hunting long ago.

LADY. Then it was someone else.... Listen, Mother, I'll go up now to the
'rose' room, and get it straight.

MOTHER. Do. I'll come in a moment.

(The LADY would like to say something, cannot, and goes out.)

STRANGER (to the MOTHER). I've seen this room already.

MOTHER. And I've seen you. I almost expected you.

STRANGER. As one expects a disaster?

MOTHER. Why say that?

STRANGER. Because I sow devastation wherever I go. But as I must go
somewhere, and cannot change my fate, I've lost my scruples.

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

STRANGER. What?

MOTHER. You think I'm speaking ill of her? I couldn't do that of my own
child. I only draw the comparison, because you know her.

STRANGER. But I've noticed what you speak of in Eve.

MOTHER. Why do you call Ingeborg Eve?

STRANGER. By inventing a name for her I made her mine. I wanted to
change her....

MOTHER. And remake her in your image? (Laughing.) I've been told that
country wizards carve images of their victims, and give them the names
of those they'd bewitch. That was your plan: by means of this Eve, that
you yourself had made, you intended to destroy the whole Sex!

STRANGER (looking at the MOTHER in surprise). Those were damnable words!
Forgive me. But you have religious beliefs: how can you think such
things?

MOTHER. The thoughts were yours.

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

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

STRANGER. Frank words. Now I know where I am.

MOTHER. I'd like to know where I am. Can you support two families?

STRANGER. If all goes well.

MOTHER. All doesn't--in this life. Money can be lost.

STRANGER. But my talent's capital I can never lose.

MOTHER. Really? The greatest of talents has been known to fail...
gradually, or suddenly.

STRANGER. I've never met anyone who could so damp one's courage.

MOTHER. Pride should be damped. Your last book was much weaker.

STRANGER. You read it?

MOTHER. Yes. That's why I know all your secrets. So don't try to deceive
me; it won't go well with you. (Pause.) A trifle, but one that does us
no good here: why didn't you pay the ferryman?

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

MOTHER. Oh yes. But in this house we do our duty before we amuse
ourselves. So you came on foot because you had no money?

STRANGER (hesitating). Yes....

MOTHER (smiling). Probably nothing to eat?

STRANGER (hesitating). No....

MOTHER. You're a fine fellow!

STRANGER. In all my life I've never been in such a predicament.

MOTHER. I can believe it. It's almost a pity. I could laugh at the
figure you cut, if I didn't know it would make you weep, and others with
you. (Pause.) But now you've had your will, hold fast to the woman who
loves you; for if you leave her, you'll never smile again, and soon
forget what happiness was.

STRANGER. Is that a threat?

MOTHER. A warning. Go now, and have your supper.

STRANGER (pointing at the table for the poor). There?

MOTHER. A poor joke; which might become reality. I've seen such things.

STRANGER. Soon I'll believe anything can happen--this is the worst I've
known.

MOTHER. Worse yet may come. Wait!

STRANGER (cast down). I'm prepared for anything.

(Exit. A moment later the OLD MAN comes in.)

OLD MAN. It was no angel after all.

MOTHER. No good angel, certainly.

OLD MAN. Really! (Pause.) You know how superstitious people here are. As
I went down to the river I heard this: a farmer said his horse shied at
'him'; another that the dogs got so fierce he'd had to tie them up. The
ferryman swore his boat drew less water when 'he' got in. Superstition,
but....

MOTHER. But what?

OLD MAN. It was only a magpie that flew in at her window, though it was
closed. An illusion, perhaps.

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

OLD MAN. This man's presence is intolerable. When he looks at me I can't
breathe.

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

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

MOTHER. The courts?

OLD MAN. Yes. Money matters. But, remember, the laws of hospitality
protect beggars and enemies. Let him stay a few days, till he's got over
this fearful journey. You can see how Providence has laid hands on him,
how his soul is being ground in the mill ready for the sieve....

MOTHER. I've felt a call to be a tool in the hands of Providence.

OLD MAN. Don't confuse it with your wish for vengeance.

MOTHER. I'll try not to, if I can.

OLD MAN. Well, good-night.

MOTHER. Do you think Ingeborg has read his last book?

OLD MAN. It's unlikely. If she had she'd never have married a man who
held such views.

MOTHER. No, she's not read it. But now she must.


SCENE VIII

THE 'ROSE' ROOM

[A simple, pleasantly furnished room in the forester's house. The walls
are colour-washed in red; the curtains are of thin rose-coloured
muslin. In the small latticed windows there are flowers. On right, a
writing-table and bookshelf. Left, a sofa with rose-coloured curtains
above in the form of a baldachino. Tables and chairs in Old German
style. At the back, a door. Outside the country can be seen and the
poorhouse, a dark, unpleasant building with black, uncurtained windows.
Strong sunlight. The LADY is sitting on the sofa working.]

MOTHER (standing with a book bound in rose-coloured cloth in her hand.)
You won't read your husband's book?

LADY. Not that one. I promised not to.

MOTHER. You don't want to know the man to whom you've entrusted your
fate?

LADY. What would be the use? We're all right as we are.

MOTHER. You make no great demands on life?

LADY. Why should I? They'd never be fulfilled.

MOTHER. I don't know whether you were born full of worldly wisdom, or
foolishness.

LADY. I don't know myself.

MOTHER. If the sun shines and you've enough to eat, you're content.

LADY. Yes. And when it goes in, I make the best of it.

MOTHER. To change the subject: did you know your husband was being
pressed by the courts on account of his debts?

LADY. Yes. It happens to all writers.

MOTHER. Is he mad, or a rascal?

LADY. He's neither. He's no ordinary man; and it's a pity I can tell
him nothing he doesn't know already. That's why we don't speak much; but
he's glad to have me near him; and so am I to be near him.

MOTHER. You've reached calm water already? Then it can't be far to the
mill-race! But don't you think you'd have more to talk of, if you read
what he has written?

LADY. Perhaps. You can leave me the book, if you like.

MOTHER. Take it and hide it. It'll be a surprise if you can quote
something from his masterpiece.

LADY (hiding the book in her bag). He's coming. If he's spoken of he
seems to feel it from afar.

MOTHER. If he could only feel how he makes others suffer--from afar.
(Exit left.)

(The LADY, alone for an instant, looks at the book and seems taken
aback. She hides it in her bag.)

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

LADY. You're irritable to-day.

STRANGER. Fearfully. Some fool has restrung my nerves out of tune, and
plays on them with a horse-hair bow till he sets my teeth on edge....
You don't know what that is! There's someone here who's stronger than
I! Someone with a searchlight who shines it at me, wherever I may be. Do
they use the black art in this place?

LADY. Don't turn your back on the sunlight. Look at this lovely country;
you'll feel calmer.

STRANGER. I can't bear that poorhouse. It seems to have been built there
solely for me. And a demented woman always stands there beckoning.

LADY. Do you think they treat you badly here?

STRANGER. In a way, no. They feed me with tit-bits, as if I were to be
fattened for the butcher. But I can't eat because they grudge it me, and
I feel the cold rays of their hate. To me it seems there's an icy wind
everywhere, although it's still and hot. And I can hear that accursed
mill....

LADY. It's not grinding now.

STRANGER. Yes. Grinding... grinding.

LADY. Listen. There's no hate here. Pity, at most.

STRANGER. Another thing.... Why do people I meet cross themselves?

LADY. Only because they're used to praying in silence. (Pause.) You had
an unwelcome letter this morning?

STRANGER. Yes. The kind that makes your hair rise from the scalp, so
that you want to curse at fate. I'm owed money, but can't get paid.
Now the law's being set in motion against me by... the guardians of my
children, because I've not paid alimony. No one has ever been in such
a dishonourable position. I'm blameless. I could pay my way; I want to,
but am prevented! Not my fault; yet my shame! It's not in nature. The
devil's got a hand in it.

LADY. Why?

STRANGER. Why? Why is one born into this world an ignoramus, knowing
nothing of the laws, customs and usage one inadvertently breaks? And
for which one's punished. Why does one grow into a youth full of high
ambition only to be driven into vile actions one abhors? Why, why?

LADY (who has secretly been looking at the book: absent-mindedly). There
must be a reason, even if we don't know it.

STRANGER. If it's to humble one, it's a poor method. It only makes me
more arrogant. Eve!

LADY. Don't call me that.

STRANGER (starting). Why not?

LADY. I don't like it. You'd feel as I do, if I called you Caesar.

STRANGER. Have we got back to that?

LADY. To what?

STRANGER. Did you mention that name for any reason?

LADY. Caesar? No. But I'm beginning to find things out.

STRANGER. Very well! Then I may as well fall honourably by my own
hand. I am Caesar, the school-boy, for whose escapade your husband, the
werewolf, was punished. Fate delights in making links for eternity.
A noble sport! (The LADY, uncertain what to do, does not reply.) Say
something!

LADY. I can't.

STRANGER. Say that he became a werewolf because, as a child, he lost
his belief in the justice of heaven, owing to the fact that, though
innocent, he was punished for the misdeeds of another. But if you say
so, I shall reply that I suffered ten times as much from my conscience,
and that the spiritual crisis that followed left me so strengthened that
I've never done such a thing again.

LADY. No. It's not that.

STRANGER. Then what is it? Do you respect me no longer?

LADY. It's not that either.

STRANGER. Then it's to make me feel my shame before you! And it would be
the end of everything between us.

LADY. No!

STRANGER. Eve.

LADY. You rouse evil thoughts.

STRANGER. You've broken your vow: you've been reading my book!

LADY. I have.

STRANGER. Then you've done wrong.

LADY. My intention was good.

STRANGER. The results even of your good intentions are terrible! You've
blown me into the air with my own petard. Why must all our misdeeds come
home to roost--both boyish escapades and really evil action? It's fair
enough to reap evil where one has sown it. But I've never seen a good
action get its reward. Never! It's a disgrace to Him who records all
sins, however black or venial. No man could do it: men would forgive.
The gods... never!

LADY. Don't say that. Say rather _you_ forgive.

STRANGER. I'm not small-minded. But what have I forgive you?

LADY. More than I can say.

STRANGER. Say it. Perhaps then we'll be quits.

LADY. He and I used to read the curse of Deutertonomy over you... for
you'd ruined his life.

STRANGER. What curse is that?

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

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

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

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

LADY. Not now. Later perhaps. Since I've got to know your terrible
book--I've only glanced at it, only read a few lines here and there--I
feel as if I'd eaten of the tree of knowledge. My eyes are opened and I
know what's good and what's evil, as I've never known before. And now
I see how evil you are, and why I am to be called Eve. She was a mother
and brought sin into the world: it was another mother who brought
expiation. The curse of mankind was called down on us by the first,
a blessing by the second. In me you shall not destroy my whole sex.
Perhaps I have a different mission in your life. We shall see!

STRANGER. So you've eaten of the tree of knowledge? Farewell.

LADY. You're going away?

STRANGER. I can't stay here.

LADY. Don't go.

STRANGER. I must. I must clear up everything. I'll take leave of the old
people now. Then I'll come back. I shan't be long. (Exit.)

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

Curtain.


SCENE IX

CONVENT

[The refectory of an ancient convent, resembling a simple whitewashed
Romanesque church. There are damp patches on the walls, looking like
strange figures. A long table with bowls; at the end a desk for the
Lector. At the back a door leading to the chapel. There are lighted
candles on the tables. On the wall, left, a painting representing the
Archangel Michael killing the Fiend.]

[The STRANGER is sitting left, at a refectory table, dressed in the
white clothing of a patient, with a bowl before him. At the table,
right, are sitting: the brown-clad mourners of Scene I. The BEGGAR. A
woman in mourning with two children. A woman who resembles the Lady, but
who is not her and who is crocheting instead of eating. A Man very like
the Doctor, another like the Madman. Others like the Father, Mother,
Brother. Parents of the 'Prodigal Son,' etc. All are dressed in white,
but over this are wearing costumes of coloured crepe. Their faces are
waxen and corpse-like, their whole appearance queer, their gestures
strange. On the rise of the curtain all are finishing a Paternoster,
except the STRANGER.]

STRANGER (rising and going to the ABBESS, who is standing at a serving
table). Mother. May I speak to you?

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

STRANGER. First, where am I?

ABBESS. In a convent called 'St. Saviour.' You were found on the hills
above the ravine, with a cross you'd broken from a calvary and with
which you were threatening someone in the clouds. Indeed, you thought
you could see him. You were feverish and had lost your foothold. You
were picked up, unhurt, beneath a cliff, but in delirium. You were
brought to the hospital and put to bed. Since then you've spoken wildly,
and complained of a pain in your hip, but no injury could be found.

STRANGER. What did I speak of?

ABBESS. You had the usual feverish dreams. You reproached yourself with
all kinds of things, and thought you could see your victims, as you
called them.

STRANGER. And then?

ABBESS. Your thoughts often turned to money matters. You wanted to pay
for yourself in the hospital. I tried to calm you by telling you no
payment would be asked: all was done out of charity....

STRANGER. I want no charity.

ABBESS. It's more blessed to give than to receive; yet a noble nature
can accept and be thankful.

STRANGER. I want no charity.

ABBESS. Hm!

STRANGER. Tell me, why will none of those people sit at the same table
with me? They're getting up... going....

ABBESS. They seem to fear you.

STRANGER. Why?

ABBESS. You look so....

STRANGER. I? But what of them? Are they real?

ABBESS. If you mean true, they've a terrible reality. It may be they
look strange to you, because you're still feverish. Or there may be
another reason.

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

ABBESS. If you don't believe them real, I'll ask the Confessor to
introduce you. (She signs to the CONFESSOR who approaches.)

CONFESSOR (dressed in a black-and-white habit of Dominicans). Sister!

ABBESS. Tell the patient who are at that table.

CONFESSOR. That's soon done.

STRANGER. Permit a question first. Haven't we met already?

CONFESSOR. Yes. I sat by your bedside, when you were delirious. At your
desire, I heard your confession.

STRANGER. What? My confession?

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

STRANGER. Why?

CONFESSOR. There was hardly a sin or vice you didn't take upon
yourself--things so hateful you'd have had to undergo strict penitence
before demanding absolution. Now you're yourself again I can ask whether
there are grounds for your self-accusations.

(The ABBESS leaves them.)

STRANGER. Have you the right?

CONFESSOR. No. In truth, no right. (Pause.) But you want to know in
whose company you are! The very best. There, for instance, is a madman,
Caesar, who lost his wits through reading the works of a certain writer
whose notoriety is greater than his fame. There's a beggar, who won't
admit he's a beggar, because he's learnt Latin and is free. There, a
doctor, called the werewolf, whose history's well known. There, two
parents, who grieved themselves to death over a son who raised his
hand against theirs. He must be responsible for refusing to follow his
father's bier and desecrating his mother's grave. There's his unhappy
sister, whom he drove out into the snow, as he himself recounts, with
the best intentions. Over there's a woman who's been abandoned with her
two children, and there's another doing crochet work.... All are old
acquaintances. Go and greet them!

(The STRANGER has turned his back on the company: he now goes to the
table, left, and sits down with his back to them. He raises his head,
sees the picture of the Archangel Michael and lowers his eyes. The
CONFESSOR stands behind the STRANGER. A Catholic Requiem can be heard
from the chapel. The CONFESSOR speaks to the STRANGER in a low voice
while the music goes on.)

          Quantus tremor est futurus
          Quando judex est venturus
          Cuncta stricte discussurus,
          Tuba mirum spargens sonum
          Per sepulchra regionum
          Coget omnes ante thronum.
          Mors stupebit et natura,
          Cum resurget creatura
          Judicanti responsura
          Liber scriptus proferetur
          In quo totum continetur
          Unde mundus judicetur.
          Judex ergo cum sedebit
          Quidquid latet apparebit
          Nil inultum remanebit.

(He goes to the desk by the table, right, and opens his breviary. The
music ceases.)

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

OMNES (in a low voice). Cursed!

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

OMNES (loudly). Cursed!

CONFESSOR. 'The Lord shall cause thee to be smitten before thine
enemies: thou shalt go out one way against them, and flee seven ways
before them, and shalt be moved into all the kingdoms of the earth. And
thy carcase shall be meat unto all fowls of the air, and unto the beasts
of the earth, and no man shall fray them away. The Lord will smite
thee with the botch of Egypt, the scab and the itch, with madness and
blindness, that thou shalt grope at noonday, as the blind gropeth in
darkness. Thou shalt not prosper in thy ways, and thou shalt be only
oppressed and spoiled evermore, and no man shall save thee. Thou shalt
betroth a wife, and another man shall lie with her: thou shalt build an
house, and thou shalt not dwell therein: thou shalt plant a vineyard,
and shalt not gather the grapes thereof. Thy sons and thy daughters
shall be given unto another people, and thine eyes fail with longing for
them; and there shall be no might in thy hand. And thou shalt find no
ease on earth, neither shall the sole of thy foot have rest: the Lord
shall give thee a trembling heart, and failing of eyes and sorrow of
mind. And thy life shall hang in doubt before thee; and thou shalt fear
day and night. In the morning thou shalt say, would God it were even!
And at even thou shalt say, would God it were morning! And because thou
servedst not the Lord thy God when thou livedst in security, thou shalt
serve him in hunger, in thirst, in nakedness and in want; and He shall
put a yoke of iron upon thy neck, until He have destroyed thee!'

OMNES. Amen!

(The CONFESSOR has read the above loudly and rapidly, without turning to
the STRANGER. All those present, except the LADY, who is working, have
been listening and have joined in the curse, though they have feigned
not to notice the STRANGER, who has remained with his back to them,
sunk in himself. The STRANGER now rises as if to go. The CONFESSOR goes
towards him.)

STRANGER. What was that?

CONFESSOR. The Book of Deuteronomy.

STRANGER. Of course. But I seem to remember blessings in it, too.

CONFESSOR. Yes, for those who keep His commandments.

STRANGER. Hm.... I can't deny that, for a moment, I felt shaken. Are
they temptations to be resisted, or warnings to be obeyed? (Pause.)
Anyhow I'm certain now that I have fever. I must go to a real doctor.

CONFESSOR. See he _is_ the right one!

STRANGER. Of course!

CONFESSOR. Who can heal 'delightful scruples of conscience'!

ABBESS. Should you need charity again, you now know where to find it.

STRANGER. No. I do not.

ABBESS (in a low voice). Then I'll tell you. In a 'rose' room, near a
certain running stream.

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

ABBESS. Three months to-day.

STRANGER. Three months! Have I been sleeping? Or where have I been?
(Looking out of the window.) It's autumn. The trees are bare; the clouds
look cold. Now it's coming back to me! Can you hear a mill grinding? The
sound of a horn? The rushing of a river? A wood whispering--and a
woman weeping? You're right. Only there can charity be found. Farewell.
(Exit.)

CONFESSOR (to the Abbess). The fool! The fool!

Curtain.


SCENE X

THE 'ROSE' ROOM

[The curtains have been taken down. The windows gape into the darkness
outside. The furniture has been covered in brown loose-covers and pulled
forward. The flowers have been taken away, and the large black stove
lit. The MOTHER is standing ironing white curtains by the light of a
single lamp. There is a knock at the door.]

MOTHER. Come in!

STRANGER (doing so). Where's my wife?

MOTHER. Where do you come from?

STRANGER. I think, from hell. But where's my wife?

MOTHER. Which of them do you mean?

STRANGER. The question's justified. Everything is, except to me.

MOTHER. There may be a reason: I'm glad you've seen it. Where have you
been?

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

MOTHER. I ought to ask you that. When you deserted her, she went
away--to look for you. Whether she's tired of looking, I can't say.

STRANGER. Something's amiss here. Where's the Old Man?

MOTHER. Where there's no more suffering.

STRANGER. You mean he's dead?

MOTHER. Yes. He's dead.

STRANGER. You say it as if you wanted to add him to my victims.

MOTHER. Perhaps I'm right to do so.

STRANGER. He didn't look sensitive: he was capable of steady hatred.

MOTHER. No. He hated only what was evil, in himself and others.

STRANGER. So I'm wrong there, too! (Pause.)

MOTHER. What do you want here?

STRANGER. Charity!

MOTHER. At last! How was it at the hospital! Sit down and tell me.

STRANGER (sitting). I don't want to think of it. I don't even know if it
_was_ a hospital.

MOTHER. Strange. Tell me what happened after you left here.

STRANGER. I fell in the mountains, hurt my hip and lost consciousness.
If you'll speak kindly to me you shall know more.

MOTHER. I will.

STRANGER. When I woke I was in a red iron bedstead. Three men were
pulling a cord that ran through two blocks. Every time they pulled I
felt I grew two feet taller....

MOTHER. They were putting in your hip.

STRANGER. I hadn't thought of that. Then... I lay watching my past life
unroll before me like a panorama, through childhood, youth.... And
when the roll was finished it began again. All the time I heard a mill
grinding.... I can hear it still. Yes, here too!

MOTHER. Those were not pleasant visions.

STRANGER. No. At last I came to the conclusion... that I was a
thoroughgoing scamp.

MOTHER. Why call yourself that?

STRANGER. I know you'd like to hear me say I was a scoundrel. But that
would seem to me like boasting. It would imply a certainty about myself
to which I've not attained.

MOTHER. You're still in doubt?

STRANGER. Of a great deal. But I've begun to have an inkling.

MOTHER. That....?

STRANGER. That there are forces which, till now, I've not believed in.

MOTHER. You've come to see that neither you, nor any other man, directs
your destiny?

STRANGER. I have.

MOTHER. Then you've already gone part of the way.

STRANGER. But I myself have changed. I'm ruined; for I've lost all
aptitude for writing. And I can't sleep at night.

MOTHER. Indeed!

STRANGER. What are called nightmares stop me. Last and worst: I daren't
die; for I'm no longer sure my miseries will end, with _my_ end.

MOTHER. Oh!

STRANGER. Even worse: I've grown so to loathe myself that I'd escape
from myself, if I knew how. If I were a Christian, I couldn't obey the
first commandment, to love my neighbour as myself, for I should have
to hate him as I hate myself. It's true that I'm a scamp. I've always
suspected it; and because I never wanted life to fool me, I've observed
'others' carefully. When I saw they were no better than I, I resented
their trying to browbeat me.

MOTHER. You've been wrong to think it a matter between you and others.
You have to deal with Him.

STRANGER. With whom?

MOTHER. The Invisible One, who guides your destiny.

STRANGER. Would I could see Him.

MOTHER. It would be your death.

STRANGER. Oh no!

MOTHER. Where do you get this devilish spirit of rebellion? If you won't
bow your neck like the rest, you must be broken like a reed.

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

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

STRANGER. Here that seems the general opinion. But I've heard that those
who serve the Evil One get honours, goods and gold as their reward. Gold
especially. Do you think me suspect?

MOTHER. You'll bring a curse on my house.

STRANGER. Then I'll leave it.

MOTHER. And go into the night. Where?

STRANGER. To seek the only one that I don't hate.

MOTHER. Are you sure she'll receive you?

STRANGER. Quite sure.

MOTHER. I'm not.

STRANGER. I am.

MOTHER. Then I must raise your doubts.

STRANGER. You can't.

MOTHER. Yes, I can.

STRANGER. It's a lie.

MOTHER. We're no longer speaking kindly. We must stop. Can you sleep in
the attic?

STRANGER. I can't sleep anywhere.

MOTHER. Still, I'll say good-night to you, whether you think I mean it,
or not.

STRANGER. You're sure there are no rats in the attic? I don't fear
ghosts, but rats aren't pleasant.

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

STRANGER (after a moment's hesitation). Never have I met a more wicked
woman than you. The reason is: you have religion.

MOTHER. Good-night!

Curtain.


SCENE XI

IN THE KITCHEN

[It is dark, but the moon outside throws moving shadows of the window
lattices on to the floor, as the storm clouds race by. In the corner,
right, under the crucifix, where the OLD MAN used to sit, a hunting
horn, a gun and a game bag hang on the wall. On the table a stuffed bird
of prey. As the windows are open the curtains are flapping in the wind;
and kitchen cloths, aprons and towels, that are hung on a line by the
hearth, move in the wind, whose sighing can be heard. In the distance
the noise of a waterfall. There is an occasional tapping on the wooden
floor.]

STRANGER (entering, half-dressed, a lamp in his hand). Is anyone here?
No. (He comes forward with a light, which makes the play of shadow less
marked.) What's moving on the floor? Is anyone here? (He goes to the
table, sees the stuffed bird and stands riveted to the spot.) God!

MOTHER (coming in with a lamp). Still up?

STRANGER. I couldn't sleep.

MOTHER (gently). Why not, my son?

STRANGER. I heard someone above me.

MOTHER. Impossible. There's nothing over the attic.

STRANGER. That's why I was uneasy! What's moving on the floor like
snakes?

MOTHER. Moonbeams.

STRANGER. Yes. Moonbeams. That's a stuffed bird. And those are cloths.
Everything's natural; that's what makes me uneasy. Who was knocking
during the night? Was anyone locked out?

MOTHER. It was a horse in the stable.

STRANGER. Why should it make that noise?

MOTHER. Some animals have nightmares.

STRANGER. What are nightmares?

MOTHER. Who knows?

STRANGER. May I sit down?

MOTHER. Do. I want to speak seriously to you. I was malicious last
night; you must forgive me. It's because of that I need religion; just
as I need the penitential garment and the stone floor. To spare you,
I'll tell you what nightmares are to me. My bad conscience! Whether
I punish myself or another punishes me, I don't know. I don't permit
myself to ask. (Pause.) Now tell me what you saw in your room.

STRANGER. I hardly know. Nothing. When I went in I felt as if someone
were there. Then I went to bed. But someone started pacing up and down
above me with a heavy tread. Do you believe in ghosts?

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

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

MOTHER. And then?

STRANGER. To stand and watch the whole panorama of my life unroll before
me. I saw everything--that was the worst of it.

MOTHER. I know. I've been through it. There's no name for the malady,
and only one cure.

STRANGER. What is it?

MOTHER. You know what children do when they've done wrong?

STRANGER. What?

MOTHER. First ask forgiveness!

STRANGER. And then?

MOTHER. Try to make amends.

STRANGER. Isn't it enough to suffer according to one's deserts?

MOTHER. No. That's revenge.

STRANGER. Then what must one do?

MOTHER. Can you mend a life you've destroyed? Undo a bad action?

STRANGER. Truly, no. But I was forced into it! Forced to take, for no
one gave me the right. Accursed be He who forced me! (Putting his hand
to his heart.) Ah! He's here, in this room. He's plucking out my heart!

MOTHER. Then bow your head.

STRANGER. I cannot.

MOTHER. Down on your knees.

STRANGER. I will not.

MOTHER. Christ have mercy! Lord have mercy on you! On your knees before
Him who was crucified! Only He can wipe out what's been done.

STRANGER. Not before Him! If I were forced, I'll recant... afterwards.

MOTHER. On your knees, my son!

STRANGER. I cannot bow the knee. I cannot. Help me, God Eternal.
(Pause.)

MOTHER (after a hasty prayer). Do you feel better?

STRANGER. Yes.... It was not death. It was annihilation!

MOTHER. The annihilation of the Divine. We call it spiritual death.

STRANGER. I see. (Without irony.) I begin to understand.

MOTHER. My son! You have left Jerusalem and are on the road to Damascus.
Go back the same way you came. Erect a cross at every station, and stay
at the seventh. For you, there are not fourteen, as for Him.

STRANGER. You speak in riddles.

MOTHER. Then go your way. Search out those to whom you have something to
say. First, your wife.

STRANGER. Where is she?

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

STRANGER. Never!

MOTHER. You'd have said that, as you came here. As you know, I expected
your coming.

STRANGER. Why?

MOTHER. For no one reason.

STRANGER. Just as I saw this kitchen... in a trance....

MOTHER. That's why I now regret trying to separate you and Ingeborg. Go
and search for her. If you find her, well and good. If not, perhaps that
too has been ordained. (Pause.) Dawn's now at hand. Morning has come and
the night has passed.

STRANGER. Such a night!

MOTHER. You'll remember it.

STRANGER. Not all of it... yet something.

MOTHER (looking out of the window, as if to herself). Lovely morning
star--how far from heaven have you fallen!

STRANGER (after a pause). Have you noticed that, before the sun rises, a
feeling of awe takes hold of mankind? Are we children of darkness, that
we tremble before the light?

MOTHER. Will you never be tired of questioning?

STRANGER. Never. Because I yearn for light.

MOTHER. Go then, and search. And peace be with you!


SCENE XII

IN THE RAVINE

[The same landscape as before, but in autumn colouring. The trees have
lost their leaves. Work is going on at the smithy and the mill. The
SMITH stands, left, in the doorway; the MILLER'S wife, right. The
LADY dressed in a jacket with a hat of patent leather; but she is in
mourning. The STRANGER is in Bavarian alpine kit: short jacket of
rough material, knickers, heavy boots and alpenstock, green hat with
heath-cock feather. Over this he wears a brown cloak with a cape and
hood.]

LADY (entering tired and dispirited). Did a man pass here in a long
cloak, with a green hat? (The SMITH and the MILLER'S WIFE shake their
heads.) Can I lodge here for the night? (The SMITH and the MILLER'S WIFE
again shake their heads: to the SMITH.) May I stand in the doorway for
a moment and warm myself? (The SMITH pushes her away.) God reward you
according to your deserts!

(Exit. She reappears on the footbridge, and exit once more.)

STRANGER (entering). Has a lady in a coat and skirt crossed the brook?
(The SMITH and MILLER'S WIFE shake their heads.) Will you give me
some bread? I'll pay for it. (The MILLER'S WIFE refuses the money.) No
charity!

ECHO (imitating his voice from afar). Charity.

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

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


SCENE XIII

ON THE ROAD

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

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

BEGGAR. I've seen five hundred. But, seriously, I must ask you not to
call me beggar now. I've found work!

STRANGER. Oh! So it's you!

BEGGAR. Ille ego qui quondam....

STRANGER. What kind of work have you?

BEGGAR. I've a starling, that whistles and sings.

STRANGER. You mean, _he_ does the work?

BEGGAR. Yes. I'm my own master now.

STRANGER. Do you catch birds?

BEGGAR. No. The lime twig's merely for appearances.

STRANGER. So you still cling to such things?

BEGGAR. What else should I cling to? What's within us is nothing but
pure... nonsense.

STRANGER. Is that the final conclusion of your whole philosophy of life?

BEGGAR. My complete metaphysic. The view mad be rather out of date,
but...

STRANGER. Can you be serious for a moment? Tell me about your past.

BEGGAR. Why unravel that old skein? Twist it up rather. Twist it up. Do
you think I'm always so merry? Only when I meet you: you're so damnably
funny!

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

BEGGAR. Now he's getting personal! (Pause.) If you can't laugh at
adversity, not even that of others, you're begging of life itself.
Listen! If you follow this wheel track you'll come, at last, to the
ocean, and there the path will stop. If you sit down there and rest,
you'll begin to take another view of things. Here there are so many
accidents, religious themes, disagreeable memories that hinder thought
as it flies to the 'rose' room. Only follow the track! If it's
muddy here and there, spread your wings and flutter. And talking of
fluttering: I once heard a bird that sang of Polycrates and his ring;
how he'd become possessed of all the marvels of this world, but didn't
know what to do with them. So he sent tidings east and west of the
great Nothing he'd helped to fashion from the empty universe. I wouldn't
assert you were the man, unless I believed it so firmly I could take my
oath on it. Once I asked you whether you knew who I was, and you said
it didn't interest you. In return I offered you my friendship, but you
refused it rudely. However, I'm not sensitive or resentful, so I'll give
you good advice on your way. Follow the track!

STRANGER (avoiding him). You don't deceive me.

BEGGAR. You believe nothing but evil. That's why you get nothing but
evil. Try to believe what is good. Try!

STRANGER. I will. But if I'm deceived, I've the right to....

BEGGAR. You've no right to do that.

STRANGER (as if to himself ). Who is it reads my secret thoughts, turns
my soul inside out, and pursues me? Why do you persecute me?

BEGGAR. Saul! Saul! Why persecutest thou Me?

(The STRANGER goes out with a gesture of horror. The chord of the
funeral march is heard again. The LADY enters.)

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

BEGGAR. There was a poor devil here, who hobbled off....

LADY. The man I'm searching for's not lame.

BEGGAR. Nor was he. It seems he'd hurt his hip; and that made him walk
unsteadily. I mustn't be malicious. Look here in the mud.

LADY. Where?

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

LADY (looking at the impression). It's he! His heavy tread.... Can I
catch him up?

BEGGAR. Follow the track!

LADY (taking his hand and kissing it). Thank you, my friend. (Exit.)


SCENE XIV

BY THE SEA

[The same landscape as before, but now winter. The sea is dark blue,
and on the horizon great clouds take on the shapes of huge heads. In the
distance three bare masts of a wrecked ship, that look like three white
crosses. The table and seat are still under the tree, but the chairs
have been removed. There is snow on the ground. From time to time a
bell-buoy can be heard. The STRANGER comes in from the left, stops a
moment and looks out to sea, then goes out, right, behind the cottage.
The LADY enters, left, and appears to be following the STRANGER'S
footsteps on the snow; she exits in front of the cottage, right. The
STRANGER re-enters, right, notices the footprints of the LADY, pauses,
and looks back, right. The LADY re-enters, throws herself into his arms,
but recoils.]

LADY. You thrust me away.

STRANGER. No. It seems there's someone between us.

LADY. Indeed there is! (Pause.) What a meeting!

STRANGER. Yes. It's winter; as you see.

LADY. I can feel the cold coming from you.

STRANGER. I got frozen in the mountains.

LADY. Do you think the spring will ever come?

STRANGER. Not to us! We've been driven from the garden, and must wander
over stones and thistles. And when our hands and feet are bruised, we
feel we must rub salt in the wounds of the... other one. And then the
mill starts grinding. It'll never stop; for there's always water.

LADY. No doubt what you say is true.

STRANGER. But I'll not yield to the inevitable. Rather than that we
should lacerate each other I'll gash myself as a sacrifice to the gods.
I'll take the blame upon me; declare it was I who taught you to break
your chains. I who tempted you! Then you can lay all the blame on me:
for what I did, and what happened after.

LADY. You couldn't bear it.

STRANGER. Yes, I could. There are moments when I feel as if I bore all
the sin and sorrow, all the filth and shame of the whole world. There
are moments when I believe we are condemned to sin and do bad actions
as a punishment! (Pause.) Not long ago I lay sick of a fever, and amidst
all that happened to me, I dreamed that I saw a crucifix without the
Crucified. And when I asked the Dominican--for there was a Dominican
among many others--what it could mean, he said: 'You will not allow Him
to suffer for you. Suffer then yourself!' That's why mankind have grown
so conscious of their own sufferings.

LADY. And why consciences grow so heavy, if there's no one to help to
bear the burden.

STRANGER. Have you also come to think so?

LADY. Not yet. But I'm on the way.

STRANGER. Put your hand in mine. From here let us go on together.

LADY. Where?

STRANGER. Back! The same way we came. Are you weary?

LADY. Now no longer.

STRANGER. Several times I sank exhausted. But I met a strange
beggar--perhaps you remember him: he was thought to be like me. And
he begged me, as an experiment, to believe his good intentions. I did
believe--as an experiment--and....

LADY. Well?

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

LADY. Let's go together!

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

LADY. Don't look at the clouds.

STRANGER. And below there? What's that?

LADY. Only a wreck.

STRANGER (whispering). Three crosses! What new Golgotha awaits us?

LADY. They're white ones. That means good fortune.

STRANGER. Can good fortune ever come to us?

LADY. Yes. But not yet.

STRANGER. Let's go!


SCENE XV

ROOM IN AN HOTEL

[The room is as before. The LADY is sitting by the side of the STRANGER,
crocheting.]

LADY. Do say something.

STRANGER. I've nothing but unpleasant things to say, since we came here.

LADY. Why were you so anxious to have this terrible room?

STRANGER. I don't know. It was the last one I wanted. I began to long
for it, in order to suffer.

LADY. And are you suffering?

STRANGER. Yes. I can no longer listen to singing, or look at anything
beautiful. During the day I hear the mill and see that great panorama
now expanding to embrace the universe.... And, at night...

LADY. Why did you cry out in your sleep?

STRANGER. I was dreaming.

LADY. A real dream?

STRANGER. Terribly real. But you see what a curse is on me. I feel I
must describe it, and to no one else but you. Yet I daren't tell you,
for it would be rattling at the door of the locked chamber....

LADY. The past!

STRANGER. Yes.

LADY (simply). It's foolish to have any such secret place.

STRANGER. Yes. (Pause.)

LADY. And now tell me!

STRANGER. I'm afraid I must. I dreamed your first husband was married to
my first wife.

LADY. Only you could have thought of such a thing!

STRANGER. I wish it were so. (Pause.) I saw how he ill-treated my
children. (Getting up.) I put my hands to his throat.... I can't go
on.... But I shall never rest till I know the truth. And to know it, I
must go to him in his own house.

LADY. It's come to that?

STRANGER. It's been coming for some time. Nothing can now prevent it. I
must see him.

LADY. But if he won't receive you?

STRANGER. I'll go as a patient, and tell him of my sickness....

LADY (frightened). Don't do that!

STRANGER. You think he might be tempted to shut me up as mad! I must
risk it. I want to risk everything--life, freedom, welfare. I need an
emotional shock, strong enough to bring myself into the light of day. I
demand this torture, that my punishment may be in just proportion to my
sin, so that I shall not be forced to drag myself along under the burden
of my guilt. So down into the snake pit, as soon as may be!

LADY. Could I come with you?

STRANGER. There's no need. My sufferings will be enough for both.

LADY. Then I'll call you my deliverer. And the curse I once laid on you
will turn into a blessing. Look! It's spring once more.

STRANGER. So I see. The Christmas rose there has begun to wither.

LADY. But don't you feel spring in the air?

STRANGER. The cold within isn't so great.

LADY. Perhaps the werewolf will heal you altogether.

STRANGER. We shall see. Perhaps he's not so dangerous, after all.

LADY. He's not so cruel as you.

STRANGER. But my dream....

LADY. Let's hope it was only a dream. Now my wool's finished; and with
it, my useless work. It's grown soiled in the making.

STRANGER. It can be washed.

LADY. Or dyed.

STRANGER. Rose red.

LADY. Never!

STRANGER. It's like a roll of manuscript.

LADY. With our story on it.

STRANGER. In the filth of the roads, in tears and in blood.

LADY. But the story's nearly done. Go and write the last chapter.

STRANGER. Then we'll meet at the seventh station. Where we began!


SCENE XVI

THE DOCTOR'S HOUSE

[The scene is more or less as before. But half the wood-pile has been
taken away. On a seat near the verandah surgical instruments, knives,
saws, forceps, etc. The DOCTOR is engaged in cleaning these.]

SISTER (coming from the verandah). A patient to see you.

DOCTOR. Do you know who it is?

SISTER. I've not seen him. Here's his card.

DOCTOR (reading it). This outdoes everything!

SISTER. Is it he?

DOCTOR. Yes. Courage I respect; but this is cynicism. A kind of
challenge. Still, let him come in.

SISTER. Are you serious?

DOCTOR. Perfectly. But, if you care to talk to him a little, in that
straightforward way of yours....

SISTER. I'd like to.

DOCTOR. Very well. Do the heavy work, and leave the final polish to me.

SISTER. You can trust me. I'll tell him everything your kindness forbids
you to say.

DOCTOR. Enough of my kindness! Make haste, or I'll get impatient. Shut
the doors. (His SISTER goes out.) What are you doing at that dustbin,
Caesar? (CAESAR comes in.) Listen, Caesar, if your enemy were to come
and lay his head in your lap, what would you do?

CAESAR. Cut it off!

DOCTOR. That's not what I've taught you.

CAESAR. No; you said, heap coals of fire on it. But I think that's a
shame.

DOCTOR. I think so, too; it's more cruel and more cunning. (Pause.)
Isn't it better to take some revenge? It heartens the other person,
lifts the burden off him.

CAESAR. As you know more about it than I, why ask?

DOCTOR. Quiet! I'm not speaking to you. (Pause.) Very well. First cut
off his head, and then.... We'll see.

CAESAR. It all depends on how he behaves.

DOCTOR. Yes. On how he behaves. Quiet. Get along.

(The STRANGER comes from the verandah: he seems excited but his manner
betrays a certain resignation. CAESAR has gone out.)

STRANGER. You're surprised to see me here?

DOCTOR (seriously). I've long given up being surprised. But I see I must
begin again.

STRANGER. Will you permit me to speak to you?

DOCTOR. About anything decent people may discuss. Are you ill?

STRANGER (hesitating). Yes.

DOCTOR. Why did you come to me--of all people?

STRANGER. You must guess!

DOCTOR. I refuse to. (Pause.) What do you complain of?

STRANGER (with uncertainty). Sleeplessness.

DOCTOR. That's not a disease, but a symptom. Have you already seen a
doctor?

STRANGER. I've been lying ill in an... institution. I was feverish. I've
a strange malady.

DOCTOR. What was so strange about it?

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

DOCTOR. If you're mad; not otherwise. (The STRANGER lets up, but then
sits down again.) What was the hospital called?

STRANGER. St. Saviour.

DOCTOR. That's not a hospital.

STRANGER. A convent, then.

DOCTOR. No. It's an asylum. (The STRANGER gets up, the DOCTOR does so,
too, and calls.) Sister! Shut the front door. And the gate leading to
the road. (To the STRANGER.) Won't you sit down? I have to keep the
doors here locked. There are so many tramps.

STRANGER (calms himself). Be frank with me: do you think me... insane?

DOCTOR. No one ever gets a frank answer to that question, as you know.
And no one who suffers in that way ever believes what he's told. So my
opinion must be a matter of indifference to you. (Pause.) But if it's
your soul, go to a spiritual healer.

STRANGER. Could you take his place for a moment?

DOCTOR. I haven't the vocation.

STRANGER. But...

DOCTOR (interrupting). Or the time. We're getting ready for a wedding
here!

STRANGER. I dreamed it!

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

STRANGER. With two children?

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

STRANGER. It might happen that...

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

STRANGER. Yes.

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

STRANGER. Will you give me your hand?

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

STRANGER. St. Saviour...

DOCTOR. Helped you. You challenged destiny and were broken. There's no
shame in losing such a fight. I did the same; but, as you see, I've got
rid of my woodpile. I want no thunder in my home. And I shall play no
more with the lightning.

STRANGER. One station more, and I shall reach my goal.

DOCTOR. You'll never reach your goal. Farewell!

STRANGER. Farewell!


SCENE XVII

A STREET CORNER

[The same as Scene I. The STRANGER is sitting on the seat beneath the
tree, drawing in the sand.]

LADY (entering). What are you doing?

STRANGER. Writing in the sand... still.

LADY. Can you hear singing?

STRANGER (pointing to the church). Yes. But from there! I've been unjust
to someone, unwittingly.

LADY. I think our wanderings must be over, now we've come back here.

STRANGER. Where we began... at the street corner, between the inn,
the church and the post office. By the way... isn't there a registered
letter for me there, that I never fetched?

LADY. Yes. Because there was nothing but unpleasantness in it.

STRANGER. Or legal matters. (Striking his forehead.) Then that's the
explanation.

LADY. Fetch it then. In the belief that what it contains is good.

STRANGER (ironically). Good!

LADY. Believe it. Imagine it!

STRANGER (going to the post office). I'll make the attempt.

(The LADY waits on the pavement. The STRANGER comes back with a letter.)

LADY. Well?

STRANGER. I feel ashamed of myself. It's the money.

LADY. You see! All these sufferings, all these tears... in vain!

STRANGER. Not in vain! It looks like spite, what happens here, but it's
not that. I wronged the Invisible when I mistook...

LADY. Enough! No accusations.

STRANGER. No. It was my own stupidity or wickedness. I didn't want to be
made a fool of by life. That's why I was! It was the elves...

LADY. Who made the change in you. Come. Let's go.

STRANGER. And hide ourselves and our misery in the mountains.

LADY. Yes. The mountains will hide us! (Pause.) But first I must go and
light a candle to my good Saint Elizabeth. Come. (The STRANGER shakes
his head.) Come!

STRANGER. Very well. I'll go through that way. But I can't stay.

LADY. How can you tell? Come. In there you shall hear new songs.

(The STRANGER follows her to the door of the church.)

STRANGER. It may be!

LADY. Come!

THE END.




PART II



CHARACTERS

     THE STRANGER
     THE LADY
     THE MOTHER
     THE FATHER
     THE CONFESSOR
     THE DOCTOR
     CAESAR

     less important figures
     MAID
     PROFESSOR
     RAGGED PERSON
     ANOTHER RAGGED PERSON
     FIRST WOMAN
     SECOND WOMAN
     WAITRESS
     POLICEMAN


SCENES

     ACT I  Outside the House

     ACT II  SCENE I   Laboratory
             SCENE II  The 'Rose' Room

     ACT III SCENE I   The Banqueting Hall
             SCENE II  A Prison Cell
             SCENE III The 'Rose' Room

     ACT IV  SCENE I   The Banqueting Hall
             SCENE II  In a Ravine
             SCENE III The 'Rose' Room




ACT I

OUTSIDE THE HOUSE

[On the right a terrace, on which the house stands. Below it a road runs
towards the back, where there is a thick pine wood with heights beyond,
whose outlines intersect. On the left there is a suggestion of a river
bank, but the river itself cannot be seen. The house is white and has
small, mullioned windows with iron bars. On the wall vines and climbing
roses. In front of the house, on the terrace, a well; at the end of the
terrace pumpkin plants, whose large yellow flowers hang dozen over the
edge. Fruit trees are planted along the road, and a memorial cross can
be seen erected at a spot where an accident occurred. Steps lead
down from the terrace to the road, and there are flower-pots on the
balustrade. In front of the steps there is a seat. The road reaches the
foreground from the right, curving past the terrace, which projects like
a promontory, and then loses itself in the background. Strong sunlight
from the left. The MOTHER is sitting on the seat below the steps. The
DOMINICAN is standing in front of her.]

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

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

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

MOTHER. That's what I've often said to myself; but there are limits to
the suffering one can bear....

DOMINICAN. There are no limits. Suff'ering's as boundless as grace.

MOTHER. First my husband leaves me for another woman.

DOMINICAN. Then let him go. He'll come crawling back again on his bare
knees!

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

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

MOTHER. No. But they'd crossed the frontier, to a land where there are
other laws. He's an Old Catholic, and he found a priest to marry them.

DOMINICAN. That's no real marriage, and can't be dissolved because it
never existed. But it can be nullified. Who is your present son-in-law?

MOTHER. Truly, I wish I knew! One thing I do know, and that's enough to
fill my cup of sorrow. He's been divorced and his wife and children live
in wretched circumstances.

DOMINICAN. A difficult case. But we'll find a way to put it right. What
does he do?

MOTHER. He's a writer; said to be famous at home.

DOMINICAN. Godless, too, I suppose?

MOTHER. Yes. At least he used to be; but since his second marriage he's
not known a happy hour. Fate, as he calls it, seized him with an iron
hand and drove him here in the shape of a ragged beggar. Ill-fortune
struck him blow after blow, so that I pitied him at the very moment he
fled from here. Then he wandered in the woods and, later, lay out in the
fields where he fell, till he was found by merciful folk and taken to a
convent. There he lay ill for three months, without our knowing where he
was.

DOMINICAN. Wait! Last year a man was brought to the Convent of St.
Saviour, where I'm Confessor, under the circumstances you describe.
Whilst he was feverish he opened his heart to me, and there was scarcely
a sin of which he didn't confess his guilt. But when he came to himself
again, he said he remembered nothing. So to prove him in heart and reins
I used the secret apostolic powers that are given us; and, as a trial,
employed the lesser curse. For when a crime's been done in secret, the
curse of Deuteronomy is read over the suspected man. If he's innocent,
he goes his way unscathed. But if he's struck by it, then, as Paul
relates, 'he is delivered unto Satan for the destruction of the flesh,
that his spirit may be saved.'

MOTHER. O God! It must be he!

DOMINICAN. Yes, it is he. Your son-in-law! The ways of Providence are
inscrutable. Was he heavily struck by the curse?

MOTHER. Yes. That night he slept here, and was torn from his sleep by an
unexplained power that, as he told me, turned his heart to ice....

DOMINICAN. Did he have fearful visions?

MOTHER. Yes.

DOMINICAN. And was he harried by those terrible thoughts, of which Job
says, 'When I say, my bed shall comfort me, then Thou scarest me
with dreams and terrifiest me with visions; so that my soul chooseth
strangling, and death rather than life.' That's as it should be. Did it
open his eyes?

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

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

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

DOMINICAN. Oh! So he looked for what's hidden, and should remain so! Did
he succeed in exorcising the spirits that chastised him?

MOTHER. He says he did. And it seems now that he can sleep again.

DOMINICAN. Yes, and he believes what he says. Yet, since he hasn't truly
accepted the love of truth, God will trouble him with great delusion, so
that he'll believe what is false.

MOTHER. The fault's his own. But he's changed my daughter: in other days
she was neither hot nor cold; but now she's on the way to becoming evil.

DOMINICAN. How do the two of them get on?

MOTHER. Half the time, happily; the other half they plague one another
like devils.

DOMINICAN. That's the way they must go. Plague one another till they
come to the Cross.

MOTHER. If they don't part again.

DOMINICAN. What? Have they done so?

MOTHER. They've left one another four times, but have always come back.
It seems as if they're chained together. It would be a good thing if
they were, for a child's on the way.

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

MOTHER. I hope it may be so. But it looks as if this one will be an
apple of discord. They're already quarrelling over its name; they're
quarrelling over its baptism; and the mother's already jealous of her
husband's children by his first wife. He can't promise to love this
child as much as the others, and the mother absolutely insists that he
shall! So there's no end to their miseries.

DOMINICAN. Oh yes, there is. Wait! He's had dealings with higher powers,
so that we've gained a hold on him; and our prayers will be more,
powerful than his resistance. Their effect is as extraordinary as it
is mysterious. (The STRANGER appears on the terrace. He is in hunting
costume and wears a tropical helmet. In his hand he has an alpenstock.)
Is that him, up there?

MOTHER. Yes. That's my present son-in-law.

DOMINICAN. Singularly like the first! But watch how he's behaving. He
hasn't seen me yet, but he feels I'm here. (He makes the sign of the
cross in the air.) Look how troubled he grows.... Now he stiffens like
an icicle. See! In a moment he'll cry out.

STRANGER (who has suddenly stopped, grown rigid, and clutched his
heart). Who's down there?

MOTHER. I am.

STRANGER. You're not alone.

MOTHER. No. I've someone with me.

DOMINICAN (making the sign of the cross). Now he'll say nothing; but
fall like a felled tree. (The STRANGER crumples up and falls to the
ground.) Now I shall go. It would be too much for him if he were to see
me, But I'll come back soon. You'll see, he's in good hands! Farewell
and peace be with you. (He goes out.)

STRANGER (raising himself and coming down the steps). Who was that?

MOTHER. A traveller. Sit down; you look so pale.

STRANGER. It was a fainting fit.

MOTHER. You've always new names for it; but they mean nothing fresh. Sit
down here, on the seat.

STRANGER. No; I don't like sitting there. People are always passing.

MOTHER. Yet I've been sitting here since I was a child, watching life
glide past as the river does below. Here, on the road, I've watched the
children of men go by, playing, haggling, begging, cursing and dancing.
I love this seat and I love the river below, though it does much damage
every year and washes away the property we inherited. Last spring it
carried our whole hay crop off, so that we had to sell our beasts. The
property's lost half its value in the last few years, and when the lake
in the mountains has reached its new level and the swamp's been drained
into the river, the water will rise till it washes the house away. We've
been at law about it for ten years, and we've lost every appeal; so we
shall be destroyed. It's as inevitable as fate.

STRANGER. Fate's not inevitable.

MOTHER. Beware, if you think to fight it.

STRANGER. I've done so already.

MOTHER. There you go again! You learn nothing from the chastisement of
Providence.

STRANGER. Oh yes. I've learned to hate. Can one love what does evil?

MOTHER. I've little learning, as you know; but I read yesterday in an
encyclopaedia that the Eumenides are not evilly disposed.

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

MOTHER. Can you call Ingeborg a fury?

STRANGER. Yes. She is one; and as a fury, she's remarkable. Her talent
for making me suffer excels my most infernal inventions; and if I escape
from her hands with my life, I'll come out of the fire as pure as gold.

MOTHER. You've got what you deserve. You wanted to mould her as you
wished, and you've succeeded.

STRANGER. Completely. But where is this fury?

MOTHER. She went down the road a few minutes ago.

STRANGER. Down there? Then I'll go to meet my own destruction. (He goes
towards the back.)

MOTHER. So you can still joke about it? Wait! (The MOTHER is left alone
for a moment, until the STRANGER has disappeared. The LADY then enters
from the right. She is wearing a summer frock, and is carrying a post
bag and some opened letters in her hand.)

LADY. Are you alone, Mother?

MOTHER. I've just been left alone.

LADY. Here's the post. This is for job.

MOTHER. What? Do you open his letters?

LADY. All of them, because I want to know who it is I've linked my life
to. And I want to suppress everything that might minister to his pride.
In a word, I isolate him, so that he has to keep his own electricity and
run the danger of being broken to pieces.

MOTHER. How learned you've grown?

LADY. Yes. If he's unwise enough to confide almost everything to me,
I'll soon hold his fate in my hand. Now, if you please, he's making
electrical experiments and claims he'll be able to harness the
lightning, so that it'll give him light, warmth and power. Well, let
him do as he likes! From a letter that came to-day I see he's even
corresponding with alchemists.

MOTHER. Does he want to make gold? Is the man sane?

LADY. That's the important question. Whether he's a charlatan doesn't
matter so much.

MOTHER. Do you suspect it?

LADY. I'd believe any evil of him, and any good, on the same day.

MOTHER. Is there any other news?

LADY. The plans my divorced husband made for a new marriage have gone
wrong; he's grown melancholic, abandoned his practice and is tramping
the roads.

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

LADY. Yes. I only called him a werewolf in his role as my husband
and master. As long as I knew he was at peace, and on the way to
find consolation, I was content. But now he'll torment me like a bad
conscience.

MOTHER. Have you a conscience?

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

MOTHER. But he forbade you to read them, and never foresaw you wouldn't
obey him.

LADY. Who can foresee all the results of any action?

MOTHER. Have you more bad news in your pocket, Pandora?

LADY. The worst of all! Think of it, Mother, his divorced wife's going
to marry again.

MOTHER. That ought to be reassuring, to you and to him.

LADY. Didn't you know it was his worst nightmare? That his wife would
marry again and his children have a stepfather?

MOTHER. If he can bear that alone, I shall think him a strange man.

LADY. You believe he's too sensitive? But didn't he say himself that
an educated man of the world at the end of the nineteenth century never
lets himself be put out of countenance!

MOTHER. It's easy to say so; but when things really happen....

LADY. Yet there was a gift at the bottom of Pandora's box that was no
misfortune. Look, Mother! A portrait of his six-year-old son.

MOTHER (looking at the picture). A lovely child.

LADY. It does one good to see such a charming and expressive picture.
Tell me, do you think my child will be as beautiful? Well, what do you
say? Answer, or I'll be unhappy! I love this boy already, but I feel I'd
hate him if my child's not as lovely as he. Yes, I'm jealous already.

MOTHER. When you came here after your unlucky honeymoon, I'd hoped you'd
have got over the worst. But now I see it was only a foretaste of what
was to come.

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

MOTHER. But you're only making more difficulties for yourself by
suppressing his letters.

LADY. In days gone by, when I went through life like a sleep-walker,
everything seemed easy to me, but I begin to be uncertain now he's
started to waken thoughts in me. (She puts the letters into the
post-bag.) Here he is. 'Sh!

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

LADY. I like torturing and humiliating him. I've persuaded him it fits
him and belonged to my father. Now, when I see him in the werewolf's
things, I feel I've got both of them in my clutches.

MOTHER. Heaven defend us! How spiteful you've grown!

LADY. Perhaps that was my role, if I have one in this man's life!

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

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

MOTHER. Don't speak of it any more. The tears of those still living have
run together and formed a lake. And it's that lake, people say, that's
being drained now, and that'll cause the river to wash us away.

LADY. Can't it be stopped by taking legal action? Is there no justice on
earth?

MOTHER. Not on earth. But there is in heaven. And heaven will drown us,
for we're the children of evildoers. (She goes up the steps.)

LADY. Isn't it enough to put up with one's own tears? Must one inherit
other people's?

(The STRANGER comes back.)

STRANGER. Did you call me?

LADY. No. I only tried to draw you to me, without really wanting you.

STRANGER. I felt you meddling with my destiny in a way that made me
uneasy. Soon you'll have learnt all I know.

LADY. And more.

STRANGER. But I must ask you not to lay rough hands on my fate. I am
Cain, you see, and am under the ban of mysterious powers, who permit no
mortals to interfere with their work of vengeance. You see this mark
on my brow? (He removes his hat.) It means: Revenge is mine, saith the
Lord.

LADY. Does your hat press....

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

LADY. Haven't you tried in vain to leave this place six times?

STRANGER. Yes. But the seventh, I'll succeed.

LADY. Then try!

STRANGER. You say that as if you were convinced I'd fail.

LADY. I am.

STRANGER. Plague me in some other way, dear fury.

LADY. Well, I can.

STRANGER. A new way! Try to say something ill-natured that 'the other
one's' not said already.

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

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

LADY. Until the being comes, who can wipe out the darkness of the past
and bring light.

STRANGER. You mean the child we're expecting!

LADY. Our child!

STRANGER. Do you love it?

LADY. I began to to-day.

STRANGER. To-day? Why, what's happened? Five months ago you wanted to
run off to the lawyers and divorce me; because I wouldn't take you to a
quack who'd kill your unborn child.

LADY. That was some time ago. Things have changed now.

STRANGER. Why now? (He looks round as if expecting something.) Now? Has
the post come?

LADY. You're still more cunning than I am. But the pupil will outstrip
the master.

STRANGER. Were there any letters for me?

LADY. No.

STRANGER. Then give me the wrapper?

LADY. What made you guess?

STRANGER. Give the wrapper, if your conscience can make such fine
distinctions between it and the letter.

LADY (picking up the letter-bag, which she has hidden behind the seat).
Look at this! (The STRANGER takes the photograph, looks at it carefully,
and puts it in his breast-pocket.) What was it?

STRANGER. The past.

LADY. Was it beautiful?

STRANGER. Yes. More beautiful than the future can ever be.

LADY (darkly). You shouldn't have said that.

STRANGER. No, I admit it. And I'm sorry....

LADY. Tell me, are you capable of suffering?

STRANGER. Now, I suffer twice; because I feel when you're suffering. And
if I wound you in self-defence, it's I who gets fever from the wound.

LADY. That means you're at my mercy?

STRANGER. No. Less now than ever, because you're protected by the
innocent being you carry beneath your heart.

LADY. He shall be my avenger.

STRANGER. Or mine!

LADY (tearfully). Poor little thing. Conceived in sin and shame, and
born to avenge by hate.

STRANGER. It's a long time since I've heard you speak like that.

LADY. I dare say.

STRANGER. That was the voice that first drew me to you; it was like that
of a mother speaking to her child.

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

STRANGER. What ill have I ever really done you? (The LADY is uncertain
what to reply.) Answer me. What ill have I done you?

LADY. I don't know.

STRANGER. Then invent something. Say to me: I hate you, because I can't
deceive you.

LADY. Can't I? Oh, I'm sorry for you.

STRANGER. You must have poison in the pocket of your dress.

LADY. Well, I have!

STRANGER. What can it be? (Pause.) Who's that coming down the road?

LADY. A harbinger.

STRANGER. Is it a man, or a spectre?

LADY. A spectre from the past.

STRANGER. He's wearing a black coat and a laurel crown. But his feet are
bare.

LADY. It's Caesar.

STRANGER (confused). Caesar? That was my nickname at school.

LADY. Yes. But it's also the name of the madman whom my... first husband
used to look after. Forgive me speaking of him like that.

STRANGER. Has this madman got away?

LADY. It looks like it, doesn't it?

(CAESAR comes in from the back; he wears a black frock coat and is
without a collar; he has a laurel crown on his head and his feet are
bare. His general appearance is bizarre.)

CAESAR. Why don't you greet me? You ought to say: Ave, Caesar! For now
I'm the master. The werewolf, you must know, has gone out of his mind
since the Great Man went off with his wife, whom he himself snatched
from her first lover, or bridegroom, or whatever you call him.

STRANGER (to the LADY). That was strychnine for two adults! (To CAESAR)
Where's your master now--or your slave, or doctor, or warder?

CAESAR. He'll be here soon. But you needn't be frightened of him. He
won't use daggers or poison. He only has to show himself, for all living
things to fly from him; for trees to drop their leaves, and the very
dust of the highway to run before him in a whirlwind like the pillar of
cloud before the Children of Israel....

STRANGER. Listen....

CAESAR. Quiet, whilst I'm speaking.... Sometimes he believes himself to
be a werewolf, and says he'd like to eat a little child that's not yet
born, and that's really his according to the right of priority.... (He
goes on his way.)

LADY (to the STRANGER). Can you exorcise this demon?

STRANGER. I can do nothing against devils who brave the sunshine.

LADY. Yesterday you made an arrogant remark, and now you shall have it
back. You said it wasn't fair for invisible ones to creep in by night
and strike in the darkness, they should come by day when the sun's
shining. Now they've come!

STRANGER. And that pleases you!

LADY. Yes. Almost.

STRANGER. What a pity it gives me no pleasure when it's you who's
struck! Let's sit down on the seat--the bench for the accused. For more
are coming.

LADY. I'd rather we went.

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

LADY. But I can stand no more. Look, there he comes himself. Heavens!
This man, whom I once thought I loved!

STRANGER. Thought? Yes, because everything's merely delusion. And that
means a great deal. You go! I'll take the duty on myself of confronting
him alone.

(The LADY goes up the steps, but does not reach the toy before the
DOCTOR becomes visible at the back of the stage. The DOCTOR comes in,
his grey hair long and unkempt. He is wearing a tropical helmet and a
hunting coat, which are exactly similar to the clothes of the STRANGER.
He behaves as though he doesn't notice the STRANGER'S presence, and sits
down on a stone on the other side of the road, opposite the STRANGER,
who is sitting on the seat. He takes of his hat and mops the sweat from
his brow. The STRANGER grows impatient.) What do you want?

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

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

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

STRANGER. For the moment, I suppose I am.

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

STRANGER. What do you mean?

DOCTOR. That you want to possess what I used to possess.

STRANGER. Well, go on.

DOCTOR. Have you noticed that we're wearing similar clothes? Good! Do
you know the reason? It's this: you're wearing the things I forgot to
fetch when the catastrophe took place. No intelligent man of the world
at the end of the nineteenth century would ever put himself into such a
position.

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

DOCTOR. You needn't complain. Cast-off male attire has always been fatal
ever since the celebrated shirt of Nessus. Go in now and change. I'll
sit out here and watch, and listen, how you settle the matter alone with
that accursed woman. Don't forget your stick! (The LADY, who is hurrying
towards the house, trips in front of the steps. The STRANGER stays where
he is in embarrassment.) The stick! The stick!

STRANGER. I don't ask mercy for the woman's sake, but for the child's.

DOCTOR (wildly). So there's a child, too. Our house, our roses, our
clothes, the bed-clothes not forgotten, and now our child! I'm within
your doors, I sit at your table, I lie in your bed; I exist in your
blood; in your lungs, in your brain; I am everywhere and yet you can't
get hold of me. When the pendulum strikes the hour of midnight, I'll
blow cold, on your heart, so that it stops like a clock that's run down.
When you sit at your work, I shall come with a poppy, invisible to you,
that will put your thoughts to sleep, and confuse your mind, so that
you'll see visions you can't distinguish from reality. I shall lie like
a stone in your path, so that you stumble; I shall be the thorn that
pricks your hand when you go to pluck the rose. My soul shall spin
itself about you like a spider's web; and I shall guide you like an ox
by means of the woman you stole from me. Your child shall be mine and
I shall speak through its mouth; you shall see my look in its eyes,
so that you'll thrust it from you like a foe. And now, beloved house,
farewell; farewell, 'rose' room--where no happiness shall dwell that I
could envy. (He goes out. The STRANGER has been sitting on the seat all
this time, without being able to answer, and has been listening as if he
were the accused.)

Curtain.




ACT II

SCENE I

LABORATORY

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

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

[In the background a door with a view of the country beyond; it is dark
and cloudy weather, but the red rays of the sun occasionally shine
into the room. A brown cloak with a cape and hood is hanging up by the
fireplace; nearby a travelling bag and an alpenstock. The STRANGER and
the MOTHER are discovered together.]

STRANGER. Where is... Ingeborg?

MOTHER. You know that better than I.

STRANGER. With the lawyer, arranging a divorce....

MOTHER. Why?

STRANGER. I told you. No, it's so far-fetched, you'll think I'm lying to
you.

MOTHER. Well, tell me!

STRANGER. She wants a divorce, because I've refused to turn this man
out, although he's deranged. She says it's cowardly of me....

MOTHER. I don't believe it.

STRANGER. You see! You only believe what you wish; all the rest is lies.
Well, can you find it in accordance with your interests to believe that
she's been stealing my letters?

MOTHER. I know nothing of that.

STRANGER. I'm not asking you whether you know of it, but whether you
believe it.

MOTHER (changing the subject). What are you trying to do here?

STRANGER. I'm making experiments concerning atmospheric electricity.

MOTHER. And that's the lighting conductor, that you've connected to the
desk!

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

MOTHER. That's blasphemy and black magic. Take care! And what are you
doing there, in the fireplace?

STRANGER. Making gold.

MOTHER. You think it possible?

STRANGER. You take it for granted I'm a charlatan? I shan't blame you
for that; but don't judge too quickly. At any moment I expect to get a
sworn statement of analysis.

MOTHER. I dare say. But what are you going to do if Ingeborg doesn't
come back?

STRANGER. She will, this time. Later, perhaps, when the child's here,
she'll cut herself adrift.

MOTHER. You seem very sure.

STRANGER. Yes. As I said, I still am. So long as the bond's not broken
you can feel it. When it is, you'll feel that unpleasantly clearly, too.

MOTHER. But when you've parted from one another, you may yet both be
bound to the child. You can't tell in advance.

STRANGER. I've been providing against that by a great interest, that I
hope will fill my empty life.

MOTHER. You mean gold. And honour!

STRANGER. Precisely! For a man the most enduring of all illusions.

MOTHER. So you'd build on illusions?

STRANGER. On what else should I build, when everything's illusion?

MOTHER. If you ever awake from your dream, you'll find a reality of
which you've never been able to dream.

STRANGER. Then I'll wait till that happens.

MOTHER. Wait then. Now I'll go and shut the window, before the
thunderstorm breaks.

STRANGER (going towards the back of the stage). That's going to be
interesting. (A hunting horn is heard in the distance.) Who's sounding
that horn?

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

STRANGER (busying himself with the electroscope, and turning his back on
the open window as he does so; then taking up a book and reading aloud.)
'When Adam's race of giants had increased enough for them to consider
their number sufficient to risk an attack on those above, they began
to build a tower that was to reach up to Heaven. Those above were then
seized with fear and, in order to protect themselves, broke up the
assembled multitude by so confusing their tongues and their minds that
two people who met could not understand one another, even if they spoke
the same language Since then, those above rule by discord: divide and
rule. And the discord is upheld by the belief that the truth has been
found; but when one of the prophets is believed, he is a lying prophet.
If on the other hand a mortal succeeds in penetrating the secret of
those above, no one believes him, and he is struck with madness so that
no one ever shall. Since then mortals have been more or less demented,
particularly those who are held to be wise, but madmen are in reality
the only wise men; for they can see, hear and feel the invisible,
the inaudible and the intangible, though they cannot relate their
experiences to others.' Thus Zohar, the wisest of all the books of
wisdom, and therefore one that no one believes. I shall build no tower
of Babel, but I shall tempt the Powers into my mousetrap, and send
them to the Powers below, the subterranean ones, so that they can be
neutralised. It is the higher Schedim, who have come between mortal
men and the Lord Zabaoth; and that is why joy, peace and happiness have
vanished from the earth.

LADY (coming back in despair, throwing herself down in front of the
STRANGER and putting her arms round his feet and her head on the
ground.) Help me! Help me! And forgive me.

STRANGER. Get up. In God's name! Get up. Don't do that. What's happened?

LADY. In my anger I've behaved foolishly. I've been caught in my own
net.

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

LADY. I went to the public prosecutor.

STRANGER.... and asked for a divorce....

LADY.... that was my intention; but when I got there, I laid information
against the werewolf for a breach of the peace and attempted murder.

STRANGER. But he's guilty of neither!

LADY. No, but I laid the information all the same.... And when I was
there, he came himself to lay information against me for bearing false
witness. Then I went to the lawyer and he told me that I could expect
a sentence of at least a month. Think of it, my child will be born in
prison! How can I escape from that? Help me. You can. Speak!

STRANGER. Yes, I can help you. But, if I do, don't revenge yourself on
me afterwards.

LADY. How little you know me. But tell me quickly.

STRANGER. I must take the blame on myself, and say I sent you.

LADY. How generous you are! Am I rid of the whole business now?

STRANGER. Dry your eyes, my child, and take comfort. But tell me about
something else, that's nothing to do with this. Did you leave this purse
here? (The LADY is embarrassed.) Tell me!

LADY. Has such a thing ever happened before?

STRANGER. Yes. The 'other one' wanted to discover, in this way, whether
I stole. The first time it happened I wept, because I was still young
and innocent.

LADY. Oh no!

STRANGER. Now you seem to me the most wretched creature on earth.

LADY. Is that why you love me?

STRANGER. No. You've been stealing my letters, too! Answer, yes! And
that's why you wanted to prove me a thief with this purse.

LADY. What have you got there, on the table.

STRANGER. Lightning!

(There is a flash of lightning, but no thunder.)

LADY. Aren't you afraid?

STRANGER. Yes, sometimes; but not of what you fear.

(The contorted face of the DOCTOR appears outside the window.)

LADY. Is there a cat in the room? I feel uneasy.

STRANGER. I don't think so. Yet I too have a feeling that there's
someone here.

LADY (turning and seeing the DOCTOR's face; then screaming and hurrying
to the STRANGER for protection.) Oh! There he is!

STRANGER. Where? Who?

(The DOCTOR'S face disappears.)

LADY. There, at the window. It's he!

STRANGER. I can see no one. You must be wrong.

LADY. No, I saw him. The werewolf! Can't we be rid of him?

STRANGER. Yes, we could. But it'd be useless, because he has an immortal
soul, which is bound to yours.

LADY. If I'd only known that before!

STRANGER. It's surely in the Catechism.

LADY. Then let us die!

STRANGER. That was once my religion; but as I no longer believe that
death's the end, nothing remains but to bear everything--to fight, and
to suffer!

LADY. For how long must we suffer?

STRANGER. As long as he suffers and our consciences plague us.

LADY. Then we must try and justify ourselves to our consciences; find
excuses for our frivolous actions, and discover his weaknesses.

STRANGER. Well, you can try!

LADY. You say that! Since I've known he's unhappy I can see nothing but
his qualities, and you lose when I compare you with him.

STRANGER. See how well it's arranged! His sufferings sanctify him, but
mine make me abhorrent and laughable! We must face the immutable. We've
destroyed a soul, so we are murderers.

LADY. Who is to blame?

STRANGER. He who's so mismanaged the fate of men.

(There is a flash of lightning; the electric bells begin to ring.)

LADY. O God! What's that?

STRANGER. The answer.

LADY. Is there a lightning conductor here?

STRANGER. The priest of Baal wishes to coax the lightning from
heaven....

LADY. Now I'm frightened, frightened of you. You're terrifying.

STRANGER. You see!

LADY. Who are you to defy Heaven, and to dare to play with the destinies
of men?

STRANGER. Get up and collect your thoughts. Listen to me, believe me,
and pay me the respect that's my due; and I'll lift both of us high
above this frog pond, to which we've both descended. I'll breathe on
your sick conscience so that it heals like a wound. Who am I? A man who
has done what no one else has ever done; who will overthrow the Golden
Calf and upset the tables of the money-changers. I hold the fate of the
world in my crucible; and in a week I can make the richest of the rich
a poor man. Gold, the most false of all standards, has ceased to rule;
every man will now be as poor as his neighbour, and the children of men
will hurry about like ants whose heap has been disturbed.

LADY. What good will that be to us?

STRANGER. Do you think I'll make gold in order to enrich ourselves and
others? No. I'll do it to paralyse the present order, to disrupt it, as
you'll see! I am the destroyer, the dissolver, the world incendiary;
and when all lies in ashes, I shall wander hungrily through the heaps
of ruins, rejoicing at the thought that it is all my work: that I have
written the last page of world history, which can then be held to be
ended.

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

LADY. Then that was the real meaning of your last book! It was no
invention!

STRANGER. No. But in order to write it, I had to link myself with the
self of another, who could take everything from me that fettered my
soul. So that my spirit could once more find a fiery blast, on which to
mount to the ether, elude the Powers, and reach the Throne, in order to
lay the lamentations of mankind at the feet of the Eternal One.... (The
DOMINICAN makes the sign of the cross in the air and disappears.) Who's
here? Who is the Terrible One who follows me and cripples my thoughts?
Did you see no one?

LADY. No. No one.

STRANGER. But I can feel his presence. (He puts his hand to his heart.)
Can't you hear, far, far away, someone saying a rosary?

LADY. Yes, I can hear it. But it's not the Angels' Greeting. It's the
Curse of Deuteronomy! Woe unto us!

STRANGER. Then it must be in the convent of St. Saviour.

LADY. Woe! Woe!

STRANGER. Beloved. What is it?

LADY. Beloved! Say that word again.

STRANGER. Are you ill?

LADY. No, but I'm in pain, and yet glad at the same time. Go and ask my
mother to make up my bed. But first give me your blessing.

STRANGER. Shall I...?

LADY. Say you forgive me; I may die, if the child takes my life. Say
that you love me.

STRANGER. Strange: I can't get the word to cross my lips.

LADY. Then you don't love me?

STRANGER. When you say so, it seems so to me. It's terrible, but I fear
I hate you.

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

STRANGER. I'd like to, but I can't. Someone in me takes pleasure in your
agony; but it's not I. I'd like to carry you in my arms and bear your
suffering for you. But I may not. I cannot!

LADY. You're as hard as stone.

STRANGER (with restrained emotion). Perhaps not. Perhaps not.

LADY. Come to me!

STRANGER. I can't stir from here. It's as if someone had taken
possession of my soul; and I'd like to kill myself so as to take the
life of the other.

LADY. Think of your child with joy....

STRANGER. I can't even do that, for it'll bind me to earth.

LADY. If we've sinned, we've been punished! Haven't we suffered enough?

STRANGER. Not yet. But one day we shall have.

LADY (sinking down). Help me. Mercy! I shall faint!

(The STRANGER extends his hand, as if he had recovered from a cramp. The
LADY kisses it. The STRANGER lifts her up and leads her to the door of
the house.)

Curtain.


SCENE II

THE 'ROSE' ROOM

[A room with rose-coloured walls; it has small windows with iron
lattices and plants in pots. The curtains are rose red; the furniture is
white and red. In the background a door leading to a white bed-chamber;
when this door is opened, a large bed can be seen with a canopy and
white hangings. On the right the door leading out of the house. On the
left a fireplace with a coal fire. In front of it a bath tub, covered
with a white towel. A cradle covered with white, rose-coloured and
light-blue stuff. Baby clothes are spread out here and there. A green
dress hangs on the right-hand wall. Four Sisters of Mercy are on their
knees, facing the door at the back, dressed in the black and white of
Augustinian nuns. The midwife, who is in black, is by the fireplace.
The child's nurse wears a peasant's dress, of black and white, from
Brittany. The MOTHER is standing listening by the door at the back. The
STRANGER is sitting on a chair right and is trying to read a book. A
hat and a brown cloak with a cape and hood hang nearby, and on the floor
there is a small travelling bag. The Sisters of Mercy are singing a
psalm. The others join in from time to time, but not the STRANGER.]

SISTERS. Salve, Regina, mater misericordiae;

           Vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve.
           Ad to clamamus, exules filii Evae;
           Ad to suspiramus gementes et flentes
           In hac lacrymarum valle.

(The STRANGER rises and goes to the MOTHER.)

MOTHER. Stay where you are! A human being's coming into the world;
another's dying. It's all the same to you.

STRANGER. I'm not so sure! If I want to go in, I'm not allowed to. And
when I don't want to, you wish it. I'd like to now.

MOTHER. She doesn't want to see you. Besides, presence here's no longer
needed. The child matters most now.

STRANGER. For you, yes; but I'm still of most importance to myself.

MOTHER. The doctor's forbidden anyone to go in, whoever they may be,
because she's in danger.

STRANGER. What doctor?

MOTHER. So your thoughts are there again!

STRANGER. Yes. And it's you who led them! An hour ago you gave me to
understand that the child couldn't be mine. With that you branded your
daughter a whore; but that means nothing to you, if you can only strike
me to the heart! You are almost the most contemptible creature I know!

MOTHER (to the SISTERS). Sisters! Pray for this unhappy man.

STRANGER. Make way for me to go in. For the last time--out of the way.

MOTHER. Leave this room, and this house too.

STRANGER. If I were to do as you ask, in ten minutes you'd send the
police after me, for abandoning my wife and child!

MOTHER. I'd only do that to have you taken to a convent you know of.

MAID (entering at the back). The Lady's asking you to do something for
her.

STRANGER. What is it?

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

STRANGER (looks round and notices the green dress; he goes over to it
and takes a letter from the pocket). This is addressed to me, and was
opened two days ago. Broken open! That's good!

MOTHER. You must forgive someone who's as ill as your wife.

STRANGER. She wasn't ill two days ago.

MOTHER. No. But she is now.

STRANGER. But not two days ago! (Reading the letter.) Well, I'll forgive
her now, with the magnanimity of the victor.

MOTHER. Of the victor?

STRANGER. Yes. For I've done something no one's ever done before.

MOTHER. You mean the gold....?

STRANGER. Here's a certificate from the greatest living authority. Now
I'll go and see him myself.

MOTHER. Now!

STRANGER. At your request.

MAID (to the STRANGER). The Lady asks you to come in.

MOTHER. You hear?

STRANGER. No, now I don't want to! You've made your own daughter, my
wife, into a whore; and branded my unborn child a bastard. You can keep
them both. You've murdered my honour. There's nothing for me to do but
to revive it elsewhere.

MOTHER. You can never forgive!

STRANGER. I can. I forgive you--and I shall leave you. (He puts on the
brown cloak and hat, picks up his stick and travelling bag.) For if I
were to stay, I'd soon grow worse than I am now. The innocent child,
whose mission was to ennoble our warped relationship, has been defiled
by you in his mother's womb and made an apple of discord and a source of
punishment a revenge. Why should I stay here to be torn to pieces?

MOTHER. For you, duties don't exist.

STRANGER. Oh yes, they do! And the first of them's this: To protect
myself from total destruction. Farewell!

Curtain.




ACT III

SCENE I

THE BANQUETING HALL

[Room in a hotel prepared for a banquet. There are long tables laden
with flowers and candelabra. Dishes with peacocks, pheasants in full
plumage, boars' heads, entire lobsters, oysters, salmon, bundles of
asparagus, melons and grapes. There is a musicians' gallery with eight
players in the right-hand corner at the back.]

[At the high table: the STRANGER in a frock coat; next to him a Civil
Uniform with orders; a professorial Frock Coat with an order; and other
black Frock Coats with orders of a more or less striking kind. At the
second table a few Frock Coats between black Morning Coats. At the third
table clean every-day costumes. At the fourth table dirty and ragged
figures of strange appearance.]

[The tables are so arranged that the first is furthest to the left and
the fourth furthest to the right, so that the people sitting at the
fourth table cannot be seen by the STRANGER. At the fourth table CAESAR
and the DOCTOR are seated, in shabby clothes. They are the farthest down
stage. Dessert has just been handed round and the guests have golden
goblets in front of them. The band is playing a passage in the middle
of Mendelssohn's Dead March pianissimo. The guests are talking to one
another quietly.]

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

CAESAR. By the way, the whole thing look's like a swindle! He hasn't
made any gold, that's merely a lie, like everything else.

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

CAESAR. There's a professor at the high table, who's supposed to be an
authority. But what subject is he professor of?

DOCTOR: I've no idea. It must be metallurgy and applied chemistry.

CAESAR. Can you see what order he's wearing?

DOCTOR. I don't know it. I expect it's some tenth rate foreign order.

CAESAR. Well, at a subscription dinner like this the company's always
rather mixed.

DOCTOR. Hm!

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

DOCTOR. Listen, Caesar, you're a lunatic in my charge, and you must
avoid speaking about intelligence as much as you can.

CAESAR. That's the greatest impertinence I've heard for a long time.
Don't you realise, idiot, that I've been engaged to look after you,
since you lost your wits?

PROFESSOR (taping his goblet). Gentlemen!

CAESAR. Hear, hear!

PROFESSOR. Gentlemen! Our small society is to-day honoured by the
presence of the great man, who is our guest of honour, and when the
committee...

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

PROFESSOR.... and when the committee asked me to act as interpreter
and to explain the motives that prompted them I was at first doubtful
whether I could accept the honour. But when I compared my own incapacity
with that of others, I discovered that neither lost in the comparison.

VOICES. Bravo!

PROFESSOR. Gentlemen! A century of discovery is ending with the greatest
of all discoveries--foreseen by Pythagoras, prepared for by Albertus and
Paracelsus and first carried out by our guest of honour. You will permit
me to give this feeble expression of our admiration for the greatest man
of a great century. A laurel crown from the society! (He places a laurel
frown on the STRANGER'S head.) And from the committee: this! (He hangs
a shining order round the STRANGER'S neck.) Gentlemen! Three cheers for
the Great Man who has made gold!

ALL (with the exception of the STRANGER). Hurrah!

(The band plays chords from Mendelssohn's Dead March. During the last
part of the foregoing speech servants have exchanged the golden goblets
for dull tin ones, and they now begin to take away the pheasants,
peacocks, etc. The music plays softly. General conversation.)

CAESAR. Oughtn't we to taste these things before they take them away?

DOCTOR. It all seems humbug, except that about making gold.

STRANGER (knocking on the table). Gentlemen! I've always been proud of
the fact that I'm not easy to deceive...

CAESAR. Hear, hear!

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

CAESAR. Bravo!

STRANGER. There are always sceptics; and moments in the life of every
man, when doubts creep into the hearts of even the strongest. I'll
confess that I myself have doubted; but after finding myself the object
this sincere and hearty demonstration, and after taking part in this
royal feast, for it is royal; and seeing that, finally, the government
itself...

VOICE. The committee!

STRANGER.... the committee, if you like, has so signally recognised my
modest merits, I doubt no longer, but believe! (The Civil Uniform creeps
out.) Yes, gentlemen, this is the greatest and most satisfying moment
of my life, because it has given me back the greatest thing any man can
possess, the belief in himself.

CAESAR. Splendid! Bravo!

STRANGER. I thank you. Your health!

(The PROFESSOR gets up. Everyone rises and the company begins to mix.
Most of the musicians go out, but two remain.)

GUEST (to the STRANGER). A delightful evening!

STRANGER. Wonderful.

(All the Frock Coats creep away.)

FATHER (an elderly, overdressed man with an eye-glass and military
bearing crosses to the doctor). What? Are you here?

DOCTOR. Yes, Father-in-law. I'm here. I go everywhere he goes.

FATHER. It's too late in the day to call me father-in-law. Besides, I'm
_his_ father-in-law now.

DOCTOR. Does he know you?

FATHER. No. He's not had that honour; and I must ask you to preserve my
incognito. Is it true he's made gold?

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

FATHER. Does that mean I can expect a third son-in-law soon? I don't
like the idea! The uncertainty of my position makes me hate being
a father-in-law at all. Of course, I've nothing to say against it,
since....

(The tables have now been cleared; the cloths and the candelabra have
been removed, so that the tables themselves, which are merely boards
supported on trestles, are all that remain. A big stoneware jug has
been brought in and small jugs of simple form have been put on the high
table. The people in rags sit down next to the STRANGER at the high
table; and the FATHER sits astride a chair and stares at him.)

CAESAR (knocking on the table). Gentlemen! This feast has been called
royal, not on account of the excellence of the service which, on the
contrary, has been wretched; but because the man, whom we have honoured,
is a king, a king in the realm of the Intellect. Only I am able to judge
of that. (One of the people in rags laughs.) Quiet. Wretch! But he's
more than a king, he's a man of the people, of the humblest. A friend
of the oppressed, the guardian of fools, the bringer of happiness to
idiots. I don't know whether he's succeeded in making gold. I don't
worry about that, and I hardly believe it... (There is a murmur. Two
policemen come in and sit by the door; the musicians come down and take
seats at the tables.)... but supposing he has, he has answered all the
questions that the daily press has been trying to solve for the last
fifty years.... It's only an assumption--

STRANGER. Gentlemen!

RAGGED PERSON. No. Don't interrupt him.

CAESAR. A mere assumption without real foundation, and the analysis may
be wrong!

ANOTHER RAGGED PERSON. Don't talk nonsense!

STRANGER. Speaking in my capacity as guest of honour at this gathering I
should say that it would be of interest to those taking part to hear the
grounds on which I've based my proof....

CAESAR. We don't want to hear that. No, no.

FATHER. Wait! I think justice demands that the accused should be allowed
to explain himself. Couldn't our guest of honour tell the company his
secret in a few words?

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

CAESAR. Then the whole thing's nonsense, the whole thing! We don't
believe authorities--we're free-thinkers. Did you ever hear anything
so impudent? That we should honour a mystery man, an arch-swindler, a
charlatan, in good faith.

FATHER. Wait a little, my good people!

(During this scene a wall screen, charmingly decorated with palm trees
and birds of paradise, has been taken away, disclosing a wretched
serving-counter and stand for beer mugs, behind which a waitress is seen
dispensing tots of spirits. Scavengers and dirty-looking women go over
to the counter and start drinking.)

STRANGER. Was I asked here to be insulted?

FATHER. Not at all. My friend's rather loquacious, but he's not said
anything insulting yet.

STRANGER. Isn't it insulting to be called a charlatan?

FATHER. He didn't mean it seriously.

STRANGER. Even as a joke I think the word arch-swindler slanderous.

FATHER. He didn't use _that_ word.

STRANGER. What? I appeal to the company: wasn't the word he used
arch-swindler?

ALL. No. He never said that!

STRANGER. Then I don't know where I am--or what company I've got into.

RAGGED PERSON. Is there anything wrong with it?

(The people murmur.)

BEGGAR (comes forward, supporting himself on crutches; he strikes the
table so hard with his crutch, that some mugs are broken.) Mr. Chairman!
May I speak? (He breaks some more crockery.) Gentlemen, in this life
I've not allowed thyself to be easily deceived, but this time I have
been. My friend in the chair there has convinced me that I've been
completely deceived on the question of his power of judgment and sound
understanding, and I feel touched. There are limits to pity and limits
also to cruelty. I don't like to see real merit being dragged into the
dust, and this man's worth a better fate than his folly's leading him
to.

STRANGER. What does this mean?

(The FATHER and the DOCTOR have gone out during this scene without
attracting attention. Only beggars remain at the high table. Those who
are drinking gather into groups and stare at the STRANGER.)

BEGGAR. You take yourself to be the man of the century, and accept the
invitation of the Drunkards' Society, in order to have yourself feted as
a man of science....

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

BEGGAR. Oh yes, the Committee of the Drunkards' Society have given you
their highest distinction--that order you've had to pay for yourself....

STRANGER. What about the professor?

BEGGAR. He only calls himself that; he's no professor really, though he
does give lessons. And the uniform that must have impressed you most was
that of a lackey in a chancellery.

STRANGER (tearing of the wreath and the ribbon of the order). Very well!
But who was the elderly man with the eyeglass?

BEGGAR. Your father-in-law!

STRANGER. Who got up this hoax?

BEGGAR. It's no hoax, it's quite serious. The professor came on behalf
of the Society, for so they call themselves, and asked you whether you'd
accept the fete. You accepted it; so it became serious!

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

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

STRANGER. What's this mean?

BEGGAR. It's the last part of the reception; and it's supposed to mean
that gold's mere rubbish.

STRANGER. If only that were true, rubbish could be exchanged for gold.

BEGGAR. Well, it's only the philosophy of the Society of Drunkards. And
you've got to take your philosophy where you find it.

SECOND WOMAN (sitting down next to the STRANGER). Do you recognise me?

STRANGER. No.

SECOND WOMAN. Oh, you needn't be embarrassed so late in the evening as
this!

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

SECOND WOMAN. No. It's not what you think. But I once came across a
printed paper, when I was about to be confirmed, which said that it was
a duty to oneself to give way to all desires of the flesh. Well, I grew
free and blossomed; and this is the fruit of my highly developed self!

STRANGER (rising). Perhaps I may go now?

WAITRESS (coming over with a bill). Yes. But the bill must be paid
first.

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

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

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

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

STRANGER (taking a visiting card and handing it to the waitress).
There's my card. You'll be paid to-morrow.

WAITRESS (putting the card in the dust-bin). Hm! I don't know the name;
and I've put a lot of such cards into the dust-bin. I want the money.

BEGGAR. Listen, madam, I'll guarantee this man will pay.

WAITRESS. So you'd like to play tricks on me too! Officer! One moment,
please.

POLICEMAN. What's all this about? Payment, I suppose. Come to the
station; we'll arrange things there. (He writes something in his
note-book.)

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

BEGGAR. Anything's to be expected, once you challenge persons as
powerful as you have! Let me tell you this in confidence. You'd better
be prepared for worse, for the very worst!

STRANGER. To think I've been so duped... so...

BEGGAR. Feasts of Belshazzar always end in one way a hand's stretched
out--and writes a bill. And another hand's laid on the guest's shoulder
and leads him to the police station! But it must be done royally!

POLICEMAN (laying his hand on the STRANGER). Have you talked enough?

THE WOMEN and RAGGED ONES. The alchemist can't pay. Hurrah! He's going
to gaol. He's going to gaol!

SECOND WOMAN. Yes, but it's a shame.

STRANGER. You're sorry for me? I thank you for that, even if I don't
quite deserve it! _You_ felt pity for me!

SECOND WOMAN. Yes. That's also something I learnt from you.

(The scene is changed without lowering the curtain. The stage is
darkened, and a medley of scenes, representing landscapes, palaces,
rooms, is lowered and brought forward; so that characters and furniture
are no longer seen, but the STRANGER alone remains visible and seems to
be standing stiffly as though unconscious. At last even he disappears,
and from the confusion a prison cell emerges.)


SCENE II

PRISON CELL

[On the right a door; and above it a barred opening, through which a ray
of sunlight is shining, throwing a patch of light on the left-hand wall,
where a large crucifix hangs.]

[The STRANGER, dressed in a brown cloak and wearing a hat, is sitting at
the table looking at the patch of sunlight. The door is opened and the
BEGGAR is let in.]

BEGGAR. What are you brooding over?

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

BEGGAR. Where do you think?

STRANGER. It seems in hell; unless I dreamed everything.

BEGGAR. Then wake up now, for this is going to be reality.

STRANGER. Let it come. I'm only afraid of ghosts.

BEGGAR (taking out a newspaper). Firstly, the great authority has

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