images generously provided by the internet archive.) the sorrows of belgium a play in six scenes leonid andreyev author of "anathema" "the seven who were hanged," etc. authorized translation by herman bernstein new york the macmillan company 1915 introduction leonid andreyev, the great russian writer, whose "anathema," "the seven who were hanged," "the life of man" and "red laughter" have attracted universal attention, has now written the story of the sorrows of the belgian people. he delineates the tragedy of belgium as reflected in the home of the foremost belgian poet and thinker--regarded as the conscience of the belgian nation. leonid andreyev feels deeply and keenly for the oppressed and weaker nationalities. he has depicted the victims of this war with profound sympathy,--the belgians, and in another literary masterpiece he analyzed the sufferings of the jews in russia as a result of this war. he described vividly the sense of shame of the russian people on account of the russian official anti-jewish policies. in both these works leonid andreyev holds german militarism and german influences responsible for the wrongs committed against smaller nationalities. in his treatise on the tragedy of the jews in russia, he writes of "russian barbarians" and "german barbarians" as follows: "if for the jews themselves the pale of settlement, the per cent norm and other restrictions were a fatal fact, which distorted all their life, it has been for me, a russian, something like a hunch on my back, a monstrous growth, which i received i know not when and under what conditions. but wherever i may go and whatever i may do the hunch is always with me; it has disturbed my sleep at night, and in my waking hours, in the presence of people, it has filled me with a sensation of confusion and shame.... "it is necessary for all to understand that the end of jewish sufferings is the beginning of our self-respect, without which russia cannot live. the dark days of the war will pass and the german barbarians' of today will once more become cultured germans whose voice will again be heard throughout the world. and it is essential that neither their voice nor any other voice should call us loudly 'russian barbarians.'" aside from its literary and dramatic value, if this volume on the sorrows of belgium will tend to arouse a little more sympathy for the sufferings of the victims of the war, or if it will help to call forth in the minds of the people a stronger abhorrence of the horrors of war, it will have served an important and worthy purpose. herman bernstein. _may 25, 1915._ the sorrows of belgium characters _count clairmont._ _emil grelieu_--a famous belgian author. _jeanne_--his wife. _pierre_ } their sons. _maurice_ } _lagard_--member of the cabinet. _general_--adjutant to count clairmont. _insane girl._ _françois_--gardener. _henrietta_ } grelieu's servants. _silvina_ } _commander of the german armies in belgium_. _von blumenfeld._ _von ritzau_ } _von stein_ } officers. _von schauss_ } _kloetz_--military engineer. _zigler_--telegraphist. _greitzer._ _german officer._ _belgian peasant_. _doctor langloi._ _a chauffeur_--a belgian. scene i _the action takes place in belgium, at the beginning of the war of 1914. the scene represents a garden near the villa of the famous belgian author, emil grelieu. beyond the tops of low trees, beyond the stone fence which divides grelieu's estate from the neighboring gardens, are seen the outlines of the red roofs of the houses in the small town, of the town hall, and of an ancient church. there the people already know about the war; there the church bells are ringing uneasily, while in the garden there is still peace. a small, splendidly kept flower garden; beautiful and fragrant flowers; shrubbery in bloom; a nook of a hothouse. the glass covers are half open. the sun is shining softly; there is in the air the bluish mist of a warm and quiet day, and all colors seem tenderly soft; only in the foreground the colors of the flowers stand out in sharp relief._ _françois is sitting and clipping roses at one of the flower beds. he is an old and deaf, stern belgian, with long, gray hair. he holds in his mouth an earthen pipe. françois is working. he does not hear the tolling of the bells. he is alone in the garden, and it seems to him that all is calm and quiet._ _but something fills him with faint alarm. he hears an indistinct call. he looks around--but sees no one. he hums to himself a song without words. suddenly he stops, straightens himself, holding the scissors in his hands, and looks around again_. françois who has called me? _he sees no one. he looks at the hothouse--it seems to him that some one is calling him from there._ i hear you, monsieur emil, i am here. _he sees no one. he frowns and cries angrily._ who is calling me? no one here. _he looks at the sky, then at the flowers, and resumes his work quietly._ they say i am deaf. but i heard some one calling me twice: "françois!" "françois!" no, perhaps it is my blood, making a noise in my ears. _silence. but his uneasiness does not subside; he listens again._ i can still hear some one calling me: "françois!" very well; here is françois, and if anyone needs me he may call me again. i shall not run. i can't hear the chirping of the birds; the birds have long since become silent for me. what nonsense--these birds! very well, i am deaf--does anyone think i am going to cry over it? _twitches his mouth into a smile._ and my eyes? that is another matter. my eyes! why are you forever silent, françois? why should i speak if i do not hear your foolish answer? it is all nonsense--to talk and to listen. i can see more than you can hear. _laughs._ yes, i see this. this does not talk either, but bend down to it and you will learn more than solomon ever knew. that is what the bible says--solomon. to you the earth is noise and prattle, while to me it is like a madonna in colors upon a picture. like a madonna in colors. _the bell is ringing. in the distance a youthful voice calls "papa!" "papa!" then, "françois!" maurice, emil grelieu's younger son, a youth of about 17, appears, coming quickly from the house. he calls françois once more, but françois does not hear. finally he shouts right next to his ear._ maurice françois, what is the matter with you? i am calling you. i am calling you. haven't you seen papa? françois _calmly, without turning around._ did you call me, maurice? i heard your call long ago. maurice you heard me, but did not respond. how obstinate you are! haven't you seen papa? i am looking for him everywhere. quick! where is papa? françois papa? maurice _shouts._ where is papa? haven't you seen him? silvina says he went to the hothouse. do you hear? françois he is not there. i spoke to monsieur this morning, but since then i have not seen him. no. maurice what is to be done? how they are tolling! françois, what is to be done--do you hear them tolling? françois ah! i hear. will you take some roses, my boy? maurice you don't understand anything--you are beyond endurance! they are running in the streets, they are all running there, and papa is not here. i will run over there, too, at once. perhaps he is there. what a day! françois who is running? maurice you don't understand anything! _shouts._ they have entered belgium! françois who has entered belgium? maurice they--the prussians. can't you understand? it's war! war! imagine what will happen. pierre will have to go, and so will i go. i will not stay here under any circumstances. françois _straightening himself, dropping the scissors._ war? what nonsense, my boy! who has entered belgium? maurice they--the prussians. pierre will go now, and i will go--i will not stay away under any circumstances, understand? what will become of belgium now?--it is hard to conceive it. they entered belgium yesterday--do you understand--what scoundrels! _in the distance, along the narrow streets of the town, an uneasy sound of footsteps and wheels is growing rapidly. distinct voices and outcries blend into a dull, suppressed, ominous noise, full of alarm. the tolling, as though tired, now subsides, now turns almost to a shriek. françois tries vainly to hear something. then he takes up the scissors again angrily._ maurice françois! françois _sternly._ that's all nonsense! what are you prating, my boy? there is no war--that is impossible. maurice you are a foolish old man, yourself! they have entered belgium--do you understand--they are here already. françois that's not true. maurice why isn't it true? françois because that is impossible. the newspapers print nonsense, and they have all gone mad. fools, and nothing more--madmen. what prussians? young man, you have no right to make sport of me like this. maurice but listen-françois prussians! what prussians? i don't know any prussians, and i don't want to know them. maurice but understand, old man, they are already bombarding liège! françois no! maurice they have killed many people. what a strange man you are! don't you hear the tolling of the bells? the people are on the square. they are all running. the women are crying. what is that? françois _angrily._ you are stepping on the flower bed. get off! maurice don't bother me! why are they shouting so loudly? something has happened there. _the sound of a trumpet is heard in the distance. the shouting of the crowd is growing ever louder. sounds of the belgian hymn are heard faintly. suddenly an ominous silence follows the noise, and then the lone sound of the tolling bells._ maurice now they are quiet.... what does it mean? françois nonsense, nonsense! _infuriated._ you are stepping on the flower bed again. get off! you have all lost your reason! go, go! the prussians!... maurice you have lost your reason! françois i am seventy years old, and you tell me about the prussians. go! _again the shouting of the crowd is heard. silvina, the chambermaid, runs out of the house and calls: "monsieur maurice!"_ silvina please, come into the house. madame jeanne is calling you. madame is going away. please, come. maurice and papa? silvina he isn't here yet. come! _both move away. françois sits down at the flower bed impatiently._ maurice you don't understand, silvina. he does not believe that there is a war. silvina it is very dreadful, monsieur maurice. i am afraid-_they go out. françois looks after them angrily, adjusts his apron, and prepares to resume his work._ françois madmen! i am seventy years old. i am seventy years old, and they want me to believe a story about prussians. nonsense, they are crazy! prussians! but it is true that i don't hear anything. _rising, he listens attentively._ no, not a sound. or do i hear something? oh, the devil take it! i can't hear a sound. impossible! no, no, impossible! but what is that? how could i believe that in this calm sky--in this calm sky-_the din of battle is growing. françois listens again and hears it. he grows thoughtful. his eyes express fright. he looks as though he had suddenly solved a terrible problem. he moves to and fro, his head bent down, as though trying to catch the sounds. suddenly he throws down the scissors. he is seized with a feeling of terror. he raises his hands._ i hear it. no. no. now i don't hear a sound. oh, god, give me the power to hear! _he tries again to catch the fleeting sounds, his head bent, his neck outstretched. his hair is disheveled. his eyes stare. suddenly, by a great effort, he hears the tolling of the bells and voices full of despair. he retreats and raises his hands again._ my god! they are tolling! they are crying! war! what war? what war? eh, who is there--who is shouting "war!"? _the sound of the bells and the cries grows louder. emil grelieu appears, walking quickly in the alley_. emil grelieu what are you shouting, françois? where is maurice? no one is in the house. françois is it war? emil grelieu yes, yes, it is war. the prussians have entered belgium. but you don't hear anything. françois _painfully trying to catch the sounds._ i hear, i hear; are they killing? emil grelieu yes, they are killing. the prussians have entered belgium. where is maurice? françois but, monsieur emil--but, monsieur, what prussians? pardon me; i am seventy years old, and i lost my sense of hearing long ago. _weeps._ is it really a war? emil grelieu yes, it is a real war. i can't understand it either. but the fighting has already commenced. i can't realize it myself, but it is war, old man. françois tell me, monsieur. tell me about it. i believe you as i believe god. tell me. i can hear you. are they killing? emil grelieu it is war! what horror, françois. it is very hard to understand it--yes, very hard. _frowns and rubs his high, pale forehead nervously_. françois _bent, weeps, his head shaking._ and the flowers? our flowers? emil grelieu _absentmindedly._ our flowers? don't cry, françois--ah, what is that? _the tolling of the bells subsides. the crying and the shouting of the crowd changes, into a harmonious volume of sound--somebody is hailed in the distance. an important announcement seems to have been made there_. emil grelieu _absentmindedly._ our people are expecting the king there--he is on his way to liège! yes, yes-_silence. suddenly there is a sound like the crash of thunder. then it changes into a song--the crowd is singing the belgian hymn._ _curtain_ scene ii _the reception hall in emil grelieu's villa. plenty of air, light, and flowers. large, windows overlooking the garden in bloom. one small window is almost entirely covered with the leaves of vines._ _in the room are emil grelieu and his elder son, pierre, a handsome, pale, and frail-looking young man. he is dressed in military uniform. they pace up and down the room slowly. it is evident that pierre is anxious to walk faster, but out of respect for his father he slackens his pace._ emil grelieu how many kilometers? pierre twenty-five or thirty kilometers to tirlemont--and here-emil grelieu seventy-four or five-pierre seventy-five--yes, about a hundred kilometers. it's not far, father. emil grelieu not far. it seemed to me that i heard cannonading. i heard it last night. pierre no, it's hardly possible. emil grelieu yes, i was mistaken. but the rays of the searchlights could be seen. they must be very powerful searchlights. mamma saw them too. pierre really? you are suffering from insomnia again, father? emil grelieu i sleep well. a hundred kilometers--a hundred kilometers-_silence. pierre looks at his father attentively._ pierre father! emil grelieu well? it's too early for you, pierre--you have three hours yet before your train starts. i am watching the time. pierre i know, father. no, i am thinking of something else--. father, tell me, have you still any hopes? _silence._ i am hesitating, i feel somewhat embarrassed to speak to you--you are so much wiser, so far above me, father.... yes, yes, it's nonsense, of course, but that which i have learned in the army during these days gives me very little hope. they are coming in such a compact mass of people, of iron, machines, arms and horses, that there is no possibility of stopping them. it seems to me that seismographs must indicate the place over which they pass--they press the ground with such force. and we are so few in number! emil grelieu yes, we are very few in number. pierre very, very few, father! dreadfully few! even if we were invulnerable and deathless, even if we kept killing them off day and night, day and night, we would drop from fatigue and exhaustion before we stopped them. but we are mortal--and they have terrible guns, father! you are silent? you are thinking of our maurice--i have caused you pain? emil grelieu there is little of the human in their movements. do not think of maurice--he will live. a human being has a face, pierre. every human being has his own face, but they have no faces. when i try to picture them to myself, i see only the lights, projectors, automobiles--those terrible guns--and something walking, walking. and those vulgar mustaches of wilhelm--but that is a mask, an immobile mask, which has stood over europe for a quarter of a century--what is behind it? those vulgar mustaches--and suddenly so much misery, so much bloodshed and destruction! it is a mask! pierre _almost to himself._ if there were only not so many of them, not so many--. father, i believe that maurice will live. he is a lucky boy. but what does mamma think about it? emil grelieu what mamma thinks? _enter françois. sternly, without looking at anyone, he waters the flowers._ and what does he think? look at him. pierre he can hardly hear anything. françois! emil grelieu i don't know whether he hears anything or not. but there was a time when he did hear. he is silent, pierre, and he furiously denies war. he denies it by work--he works alone in the garden as if nothing had happened. our house is full of refugees. mamma and everyone else in the house are busy, feeding them, washing the children--mamma is washing them--but he does not seem to notice anything. he denies war! now he is bursting from anxiety to hear or guess what we are saying, but do you see the expression of his face? if you start to talk to him he will go away. pierre françois! emil grelieu don't bother him. he wants to be crafty. perhaps he hears us. you ask me what mother is thinking of. do i know? who can tell? you see that she is not here, and yet these are your last hours at home. yes, in this house--i am speaking of the house. she is young and resolute as ever, she walks just as lightly and is just as clear-headed, but she is not here. she is simply not here, pierre. pierre is she concealing something? emil grelieu no, she is not concealing anything, but she has gone into the depths of her own self, where all is silence and mystery. she is living through her motherhood again, from the very beginning--do you understand? when you and maurice were not yet born--but in this she is crafty, like françois. sometimes i see clearly that she is suffering unbearably, that she is terrified by the war--. but she smiles in answer and then i see something else--i see how there has suddenly awakened in her the prehistoric woman--the woman who handed her husband the fighting club--. wait, the soldiers are coming again! _military music is heard in the distance, nearing._ pierre yes, according to the assignment, it is the ninth regiment. emil grelieu let us hear it, pierre. i hear this music several times a day. there it starts on the right, and there it dies down. always there. _they listen._ but they are brave fellows! pierre yes. _both listen attentively at the window. françois looks at them askance and tries in vain to hear. the music begins to die out._ emil grelieu _walking away from the window._ yesterday they played the "marseillaise." but they are brave fellows! _emil grelieu's wife enters quickly._ jeanne do you hear it? how beautiful! even our refugees smiled when they heard it. emil, i have brought you some telegrams, here. i have read them. emil grelieu what is it? let me have them! _reading the telegrams, he staggers to an armchair and sinks into it. he turns pale._ pierre what is it, father? emil grelieu read! _pierre reads it over the shoulder of his father. the woman looks at them with an enigmatical expression upon her face. she sits calmly, her beautiful head thrown back. emil grelieu rises quickly, and both he and his son start to pace the room in opposite directions._ pierre do you see? emil grelieu yes. pierre do you see? emil grelieu yes! yes! jeanne _as though indifferently._ emil, was that an interesting library which they have destroyed? i don't know. emil grelieu yes, very. but what are you asking me, jeanne? how can you speak? jeanne oh, i speak only of those books! tell me, were there many books there? emil grelieu yes, many, many! jeanne and they've burned them? _she hums softly in afresh, strong voice._ "only the halo of the arts crowns law, liberty, and the king!--law--" emil grelieu books, books. jeanne and there was also a cathedral there. oh, i remember it! isn't it true, emil, that it was a beautiful structure? _hums._ "law, liberty, and the king--" pierre father! what? emil grelieu _he walks up and down the room._ jeanne pierre, it will soon be time for you to leave. i'll give you something to eat at once. pierre, do you think it is true that they are killing women and children? i don't know. pierre it is true, mother. emil grelieu how can you say it, jeanne? you don't know? jeanne i say this on account of the children. yes, there they write that they are killing children, so they write there. and all this was crowded upon that little slip of paper--and the children, as well as the fire-_rises quickly and walks away, humming._ emil grelieu where are you going, jeanne? jeanne nowhere in particular. françois, do you hear? they are murdering our women and children. françois! françois! _without turning around, françois walks out, his shoulders bent. all look after him. jeanne goes to the other door with a strange half-smile._ pierre mamma! jeanne i will return directly. emil grelieu what shall i call them? what can i call them? my dear pierre, my boy, what shall i call them? pierre you are greatly agitated, father. emil grelieu i have always thought, i have always been convinced that words were at my command, but here i stand before this monstrous, inexplicable--i don't know, i don't know what to call them. my heart is crying out, i hear its voice, but the word! pierre, you are a student, you are young, your words are direct and pure--pierre, find the word! pierre you want me to find it, father? yes, i was a student, and i knew certain words: peace, right, humanity. but now you see! my heart is crying too, but i do not know what to call these scoundrels. scoundrels? that is not sufficient. _in despair._ not sufficient. emil grelieu that is not strong enough. pierre, i have decided-pierre decided? emil grelieu yes, i am going. pierre you, father? emil grelieu i decided to do it several days ago--even then, at the very beginning. and i really don't know why i--. oh, yes, i had to overcome within me--my love for flowers. _ironically._ yes, pierre, my love for flowers. oh, my boy, it is so hard to change from flowers to iron and blood! pierre father, i dare not contradict you. emil grelieu no, no, you dare not. it is not necessary. listen, pierre, you must examine me as a physician. pierre i am only a student, father. emil grelieu yes, but you know enough to say--. you see, pierre, i must not burden our little army with a single superfluous sick or weak man. isn't that so? i must bring with me strength and power, not shattered health. isn't that so? and i am asking you, pierre, to examine me, simply as a physician, as a young physician. but i feel somewhat embarrassed with you--. must i take this off, or can you do it without removing this? pierre it can be done this way. emil grelieu i think so, too. and--must i tell you everything, or--? at any rate, i will tell you that i have not had any serious ailments, and for my years i am a rather strong, healthy man. you know what a life i am leading. pierre that is unnecessary, father. emil grelieu it is necessary. you are a physician. i want to say that in my life there were none of those unwholesome--and bad excesses. oh, the devil take it, how hard it is to speak of it. pierre papa, i know all this. _quickly kisses his father's hand. silence._ emil grelieu but it is necessary to take my pulse, pierre, i beg of you. pierre _smiling faintly._ it isn't necessary to do even that. as a physician, i can tell you that you are healthy, but--you are unfit for war, you are unfit for war, father! i am listening to you and i feel like crying, father. emil grelieu _thoughtfully._ yes, yes. but perhaps it is not necessary to cry. do you think, pierre, that i should not kill? pierre, you think, that i, emil grelieu, must not kill under any circumstances and at any time? pierre _softly._ i dare not touch upon your conscience, father. emil grelieu yes, that is a terrible question for a man. i must kill, pierre. of course, i could take your gun, but not to fire--no, that would have been disgusting, a sacrilegious deception! when my humble people are condemned to kill, who am i that i should keep my hands clean? that would be disgusting cleanliness, obnoxious saintliness. my humble nation did not desire to kill, but it was forced, and it has become a murderer. so i, too, must become a murderer, together with my nation. upon whose shoulders will i place the sin--upon the shoulders of our youths and children? no, pierre. and if ever the higher conscience of the world will call my dear people to the terrible accounting, if it will call you and maurice, my children, and will say to you: "what have you done? you have murdered!" i will come forward and will say: "first you must judge me; i have also murdered--and you know that i am an honest man!" _pierre sits motionless, his face covered with his hands. enter jeanne, unnoticed._ pierre _uncovering his face._ but you must not die! you have no right! emil grelieu _loudly, and with contempt._ oh, death! _they notice jeanne, and grow silent. jeanne sits down and speaks in the same tone of strange, almost cheerful calm._ jeanne emil, she is here again. emil grelieu yes? she is here again. where has she been the last two nights? jeanne she does not know herself. emil, her dress and her hands were in blood. emil grelieu she is wounded? jeanne no, it is not her own blood, and by the color i could not tell whose blood it is. pierre who is that, mother? jeanne a girl. just a girl. she's insane. i have combed her hair and put a clean dress on her. she has beautiful hair. emil, i have heard something--i understand that you want to go--? emil grelieu yes. jeanne together with your children, emil? emil grelieu yes. pierre has examined me and finds that i am fit to enter the ranks. jeanne you intend to go tomorrow? emil grelieu yes. jeanne you cannot manage it today. pierre, you have only an hour and a half left. _silence._ pierre mamma! tell him that he must not--forgive me, father!--that he should not go. isn't that true, mother? tell him! he has given to the nation his two sons--what more should he give? he has no right to give more. jeanne more, pierre? pierre yes,--his life. you love him; you, yourself, would die if he were killed--tell him that, mother! jeanne yes, i love him. i love you, too. pierre oh, what are we, maurice and i? but he! just as they have no right to destroy temples in war or to bum libraries, just as they have no right to touch the eternal, so he--he--has no right to die. i am speaking not as your son, no; but to kill emil grelieu--that would be worse than to bum books. listen to me! you have brought me into this world. listen to me!--although i am young and should be silent--listen to me! they have already robbed us. they have deprived us of our land and of the air; they have destroyed our treasures which have been created by the genius of our people, and now we would cast our best men into their jaws! what does that mean? what will remain of us? let them kill us all, let our land be turned into a waste desert, let all living creatures be burned to death, but as long as he lives, belgium is alive! what is belgium without him? oh, do not be silent, mother! tell him! _silence._ emil grelieu _somewhat sternly._ calm yourself, pierre! jeanne yesterday i--no, pierre, that isn't what i was going to say--i don't know anything about it. how could i know? but yesterday i--it is hard to get vegetables, and even bread, here--so i went to town, and for some reason we did not go in that direction, but nearer the field of battle--. how strange it is that we found ourselves there! and there i saw them coming-emil grelieu whom? jeanne our soldiers. they were coming from there--where the battle raged for four days. there were not many of them--about a hundred or two hundred. but we all--there were so many people in the streets--we all stepped back to the wall in order to make way for them. emil, just think of it; how strange! they did not see us, and we would have been in their way! they were black from smoke, from mud, from dried blood, and they were swaying from fatigue. they were all thin--as consumptives. but that is nothing, that is all nothing. their eyes--what was it, emil? they did not see their surroundings, they still reflected that which they had seen there--fire and smoke and death--and what else? some one said: "here are people returning from hell." we all bowed to them, we bowed to them, but they did not see that either. is that possible, emil? emil grelieu yes, jeanne, that is possible. pierre and he will go to that inferno? _silence. emil grelieu walks over to his wife and kisses her hand. she looks at his head with a smile. suddenly she rises._ jeanne forgive me; there is something else i must say-_she moves quickly and lightly, but suddenly, as though stumbling over an invisible obstacle, falls on one knee. then she tries to rise, kneels, pale and still smiling, bending to one side. they rush over to her and lift her from the ground._ pierre mamma! mamma! emil grelieu you have a headache? jeanne, my dearest, what ails you? _she pushes them aside, stands up firmly, trying to conceal her nervousness._ jeanne what is it? what? don't trouble, emil! my head? no, no! my foot slipped--you know, the one that pained me. you see, i can walk now. emil grelieu a glass of water, pierre. jeanne what for? how absurd! _but pierre had already gone out. jeanne sits down, hangs her head, as one guilty, endeavoring not to look into his eyes._ jeanne what an excitable youth--your pierre! did you hear what he said? emil grelieu _significantly._ jeanne! jeanne what? no, no--why do you look at me this way? no--i am telling you. _pierre brings her water, but jeanne does not drink it._ jeanne thank you, pierre, but i don't want it. _silence._ how fragrant the flowers are. pierre, please give me that rose--yes, that one. thank you. how fresh it is, emil, and what a fine fragrance--come over here, emil! _emil grelieu goes over to her and kisses the hand in which she holds the rose. looks at her._ jeanne _lowering her hand._ no; i have asked for this flower simply because its fragrance seems to me immortal--it is always the same--as the sky. how strange it is, always the same. and when you bring it close to your face, and close to your eyes, it seems to you that there is nothing except this red rose and the blue sky. nothing but the red rose and the distant, pale--very pale--blue sky.... emil grelieu pierre! listen to me, my boy! people speak of this only at night, when they are alone with their souls--and she knows it, but you do not know it yet. don't you know it, jeanne? jeanne _trembling, opening her eyes._ yes, i know, emil. emil grelieu the life of the poet does not belong to him. the roof over the heads of people, which shelters them--all that is a phantom for me, and my life does not belong to me. i am always far away, not here--i am always where i am not. you think of finding me among the living, while i am dead; you are afraid of finding me in death, mute, cold, doomed to decay, while i live and sing aloud from my grave. death which makes people mute, which leaves the imprint of silence upon the bravest lips, restores the voice to the poet. dead, i speak more loudly than alive. dead, i am alive! am i--just think of it, pierre, my boy,--am i to fear death when in my most persistent searches i could not find the boundary between life and death, when in my feelings i mix life and death into one--as two strong, rare kinds of wine? just think of it, my boy! _silence. emil grelieu looks at his son, smiling. pierre has covered his face with his hands. the woman is apparently calm. she turns her eyes from her weeping son to her husband._ pierre _uncovering his face._ forgive me, father! jeanne take this rose, pierre, and when it fades and falls apart tear down another rose--it will have the same fragrance as this one. you are a foolish little boy, pierre, but i am also foolish, although emil is so kind that he thinks differently. will you be in the same regiment, emil? emil grelieu no, hardly, jeanne. pierre father, it is better that we be in the same regiment. i will arrange it, father--will you permit me? and i will teach you how to march--. you know, i am going to be your superior officer. emil grelieu _smiling._ very well. jeanne _goes out singing in a low voice._ "only the halo of the arts is crowning--law, liberty, and the king." who is that? ah, you! look, pierre, here is the girl you wished to see. come in, come in, my dear child! don't be afraid, come in! you know him. that's my husband. he is a very good man and will do you no harm. and this is my son, pierre. give him your hand. _a girl enters; she is frail, very pale, and beautiful. she wears a black dress, her hair is combed neatly, and she is modest in her demeanor. her eyes reflect fright and sorrow. she is followed by the chambermaid, silvina, a kind, elderly woman in a white cap; by madame henrietta, and another woman in the service of the grelieu household. they stop at the threshold and watch the girl curiously. the elder woman is weeping as she looks at her._ girl _stretching forth her hand to pierre._ oh, that is a soldier! be so kind, soldier, tell me how to go to lonua. i have lost my way. pierre _confused._ i do not know, mademoiselle. girl _looking at everybody mournfully._ who knows? it is time for me to go. jeanne _cautiously and tenderly leading her to a seat._ sit down, child, take a rest, my dear, give your poor feet a rest. pierre, her feet are wounded, yet she wants to walk all the time. elderly woman i wanted to stop her, monsieur pierre, but it is impossible to stop her. if we close the door before her the poor girl beats her head against the walls, like a bird in a cage. poor girl! _dries her tears. françois enters from the garden and occupies himself again with the flowers. he glances at the girl from time to time. it is evident that he is making painful efforts to hear and understand what is going on._ girl it is time for me to go. jeanne rest yourself, here, my child! why should you leave? at night it is so terrible on the roads. there, in the dark air, bullets are buzzing instead of our dear bees; there wicked people, vicious beasts are roaming. and there is no one who can tell you, for there is no one who knows how to go to lonua. girl don't you know how i could find my way to lonua? pierre _softly._ what is she asking? emil grelieu oh, you may speak louder; she can hear as little as françois. she is asking about the village which the prussians have set on fire. her home used to be there--now there are only ruins and corpses there. there is no road that leads to lonua! girl don't you know it, either? no one knows. i have asked everybody, and no one can tell me how to find my way to lonua. i must hurry. they are waiting for me there. _she rises quickly and walks over to françois._ tell me; you are kindhearted! don't you know the way to lonua? _françois looks at her intently. silently he turns away and walks out, stooping._ jeanne _seating her again._ sit down, little girl. he does not know. girl _sadly._ i am asking, and they are silent. emil grelieu i suppose she is also asking the bodies of the dead that lie in the fields and in the ditches how to go to lonua. jeanne her hands and her dress were bloodstained. she was walking all night. take a rest, my little one! i will hold you in my arms, and you will feel better and more comfortable, my little child. girl _softly._ tell me, how can i find my way to lonua? jeanne yes, yes, come! emil, i will go with her to my room. there she will feel more comfortable. come along, my dear. i'll hold you. come! _they go out. the other women follow them. emil grelieu and pierre remain._ emil grelieu lonua! a quiet little village which no one ever noticed before--houses, trees, and flowers. where is it now? who knows the way to that little village? pierre, the soul of our people is roaming about in the watches of the night, asking the dead how to find the way to lonua! pierre, i cannot endure it any longer! i am suffocating from hatred and anger! oh, weep, you german nation--bitter will be the fate of your children, terrible will be your disgrace before the judgment of the free nations! _curtain_ scene iii _night. the dark silhouette of emil grelieu's villa stands out in the background. the gatekeeper's house is seen among the trees, a dim light in the window. at the cast-iron fence frightened women are huddled together, watching the fire in the distance. an alarming redness has covered the sky; only in the zenith is the sky dark. the reflection of the fire falls upon objects and people, casting strange shadows against the mirrors of the mute and dark villa. the voices sound muffled and timid; there are frequent pauses and prolonged sighs. three women_. henrietta my god, my god! how terrible it is! it is burning and burning, and there is no end to the fire! second woman yesterday it was burning further away, and tonight the fire is nearer. it is growing nearer. o lord! henrietta it is burning and burning, there is no end to the fire! today the sun was covered in a mist. second woman it is forever burning, and the sun is growing ever darker! now it is lighter at night than in the daytime! silvina i am afraid! henrietta be silent, silvina, be silent! _silence._ second woman i can't hear a sound. what is binning there? if i close my eyes it seems to me that nothing is going on there. it is so quiet! even the dogs are not barking! henrietta i can see all that is going on there even with my eyes closed. look; it seems the fire is spreading! silvina oh, i am afraid! second woman where is it burning? henrietta i don't know. it is burning and burning, and there is no end to the fire! it may be that they have all perished by this time. it may be that something terrible is going on there, and we are looking on and know nothing. _a fourth woman approaches them quietly._ fourth woman good evening! silvina _with restraint._ oh! henrietta oh, you have frightened us! good evening, neighbor! fourth woman good evening, madame henrietta! never mind my coming here--it is terrible to stay in the house! i guessed that you were not sleeping, but here, watching. you can see well from this spot. don't you know where the fire is? second woman no. and we can't hear a sound--how quiet! henrietta it is burning and burning. haven't you heard anything about your husband? fourth woman no, nothing. i have already stopped weeping. henrietta and with whom are your children just now? fourth woman alone. they are asleep. is it true that monsieur pierre was killed? i've heard about it. henrietta _agitated._ just imagine! i don't know! i simply cannot understand what is going on! you see, there is no one in the house now, and we are afraid to sleep there-second woman the three of us sleep here, in the gatekeeper's house. henrietta i am afraid to look into that house even in the daytime--the house is so large and so empty! and there are no men there, not a soul-fourth woman is it true that françois has gone to shoot the prussians? i have heard about it. henrietta maybe. everybody is talking about it, but we don't know. he disappeared quietly, like a mouse. fourth woman he will be hanged--the prussians hang such people! henrietta wait, wait! today, while i was in the garden, i heard the telephone ringing in the house; it was ringing for a long time. i was frightened, but i went in after all--and, just think of it! some one said: "monsieur pierre was killed!" second woman and nothing more? henrietta nothing more; not a word! all grew quiet again. i felt so bad and was so frightened that i could hardly run out. now i will not enter that house for anything! fourth woman whose voice was it? second woman madame henrietta says it was an unfamiliar voice. henrietta yes, an unfamiliar voice. fourth woman look! there seems to be a light in the windows of the house--somebody is there! silvina oh, i am afraid! i can't bear it! henrietta oh, what are you saying; what are you saying? there is no one there! second woman that's from the redness of the sky! fourth woman what if some one is ringing there again? henrietta how is that possible? at night? _all listen. silence._ second woman what will become of us? they are coming this way, and there is nothing that can stop them! fourth woman i wish i might die now! when you are dead, you don't hear or see anything. henrietta it keeps on all night like this--it is burning and burning! and in the daytime it will again be hard to see things on account of the smoke; and the bread will smell of burning! what is going on there? fourth woman they have killed monsieur pierre. second woman they have killed him? killed him? silvina you must not speak of it! my god, whither should i go! i cannot bear this. i cannot understand it! _weeps softly._ fourth woman they say there are twenty millions of them, and they have already set paris on fire. they say they have cannon which can hit a hundred kilometers away. henrietta my god, my god! and all that is coming upon us! second woman merciful god, have pity on us! fourth woman and they are flying and they are hurling bombs from airships--terrible bombs, which destroy entire cities! henrietta my god! what have they done with the sky! before this you were alone in the sky, and now those base prussians are there too! second woman before this, when my soul wanted rest and joy i looked at the sky, but now there is no place where a poor soul can find rest and joy! fourth woman they have taken everything away from our belgium--even the sky! i wish i could die at once! there is no air to breathe now! _suddenly frightened._ listen! don't you think that now my husband, my husband-henrietta no, no! fourth woman why is the sky so red? what is it that is burning there? second woman have mercy on us, o god! the fire seems to be moving toward us! _silence. the redness of the flames seems to be swaying over the earth._ _curtain_ scene iv _dawn. the sun has already risen, but it is hidden behind the heavy mist and smoke._ _a large room in emil grelieu's villa, which has been turned into a sickroom. there are two wounded there, grelieu himself, with a serious wound in his shoulder, and his son maurice, with a light wound on his right arm. the large window, covered with half transparent curtains, admits a faint bluish light. the wounded appear to be asleep. in an armchair at the bedside of grelieu there is a motionless figure in white, jeanne_. emil grelieu _softly._ jeanne! _she leans over the bed quickly_. jeanne shall i give you some water? emil grelieu no. you are tired. jeanne oh, no, not at all. i was dozing all night. can't you fall asleep, emil? emil grelieu what time is it? _she goes over to the window quietly, and pushing the curtain aside slightly, looks at her little watch. then she returns just as quietly._ jeanne it is still early. perhaps you will try to fall asleep, emil? it seems to me that you have been suffering great pain; you have been groaning all night. emil grelieu no, i am feeling better. how is the weather this morning? jeanne nasty weather, emil; you can't see the sun. try to sleep. _silence. suddenly maurice utters a cry in his sleep; the cry turns into a groan and indistinct mumbling. jeanne walks over to him and listens, then returns to her seat._ emil grelieu is the boy getting on well? jeanne don't worry, emil. he only said a few words in his sleep. emil grelieu he has done it several times tonight. jeanne i am afraid that he is disturbing you. we can have him removed to another room and henrietta will stay with him. the boy's blood is in good condition. in another week, i believe, we shall be able to remove the bandage from his arm. emil grelieu no, let him stay here, jeanne. jeanne what is it, my dear? _she kneels at his bed and kisses his hand carefully._ emil grelieu jeanne! jeanne i think your fever has gone down, my dear. _impresses another kiss upon his hand and clings to it._ emil grelieu you are my love, jeanne. jeanne do not speak, do not speak. don't agitate yourself. _a brief moment of silence._ emil grelieu _moving his head restlessly._ it is so hard to breathe here, the air---jeanne the window has been open all night, my dear. there is not a breeze outside. emil grelieu there is smoke. jeanne yes. maurice _utters a cry once more, then mutters_-stop, stop, stop! _again indistinctly._ it is burning, it is burning! oh! who is going to the battery, who is going to the battery---_he mutters and then grows silent._ emil grelieu what painful dreams! jeanne that's nothing; the boy always used to talk in his sleep. yesterday he looked so well. emil grelieu jeanne! jeanne what is it, my dear? emil grelieu sit down. jeanne very well. emil grelieu jeanne.... are you thinking about pierre? _silence._ jeanne _softly._ don't speak of him. emil grelieu you are right. death is not so terrible. isn't that true, jeanne? jeanne _after a brief pause._ that's true. emil grelieu we shall follow him later. he will not come here, but we shall go to him. i was thinking of it at night. it is so clear. do you remember the red rose which you gave him? i remember it. jeanne yes. emil grelieu it is so clear. jeanne, lean over me. you are the best woman in the world. _silence._ emil grelieu _tossing about in his bed._ it is so hard to breathe. jeanne my dear---emil grelieu no, that's nothing. the night is tormenting me. jeanne, was i dreaming, or have i really heard cannonading? jeanne you really heard it, at about five o'clock. but very far away, emil--it was hardly audible. close your eyes, my dear, rest yourself. _silence_ maurice _faintly._ mamma! _jeanne walks over to him quietly._ jeanne are you awake? maurice yes. i have slept enough. how is father? jeanne he is awake. emil grelieu good morning, maurice. maurice good morning, papa. how do you feel? i am feeling well. emil grelieu i, too, am feeling well. jeanne, you may draw the curtain aside. i can't sleep any longer. jeanne very well. what a nasty day! still it will be easier for you to breathe when it is light. _she draws the curtain aside slowly, so as not to make it too light at once. beyond the large window vague silhouettes of the trees are seen at the window frames and several withered, bent flowers. maurice is trying to adjust the screen._ jeanne what are you doing, maurice? maurice my coat--never mind, i'll fix it myself. _guiltily._ no, mamma, you had better help me. jeanne _going behind the screen._ what a foolish boy you are, maurice. _behind the screen._ be careful, be careful, that's the way. don't hurry, be careful. maurice _behind the screen._ pin this for me right here, as you did yesterday. that's very good. jeanne _behind the screen._ of course. wait, you'll kiss me later--. well? that's the way. _maurice comes out, his right arm dressed in a bandage. he goes over to his father and first kisses his hand, then, upon a sign from his eyes, he kisses him on the lips._ emil grelieu good morning, good morning, my dear boy. maurice _looking around at the screen, where his mother is putting the bed in order._ papa, look! _he takes his hand out of the bandage and straightens it quickly. then he puts it back just as quickly. emil grelieu threatens him with his finger. jeanne puts the screen aside, and the bed is already in order._ jeanne i am through now. maurice, come to the bathroom. i'll wash you. maurice oh, no; under no circumstances. i'll wash myself today. last night i washed myself with my left hand and it was very fine. _walking over to the open window._ how nasty it is. these scoundrels have spoiled the day. still, it is warm and there is the smell of flowers. it's good, papa; it is very fine. emil grelieu yes, it is pleasant. maurice well, i am going. jeanne clean your teeth; you didn't do it yesterday, maurice. maurice _grumbling. _ what's the use of it now? very well, i'll do it. _at the door. _ papa, do you know, well have good news today; i feel it. _he is heard calling in a ringing voice, "silvina."_ emil grelieu i feel better. jeanne i'll let you have your coffee directly. you are looking much better today, much better. emil grelieu what is this? jeanne perfume, with water. i'll bathe your face with it that's the way. now i again have little children to wash. you see how pleasant it feels. emil grelieu yes. what did he say about good news? jeanne he didn't mean anything. he is very happy because he is a hero. emil grelieu do you know any news? jeanne _irresolutely._ nothing. what news could there be? emil grelieu tell me, jeanne; you were firmer before. tell me my dear. jeanne was i firmer? perhaps.... i have grown accustomed to talk to you softly at night. well--how shall i tell it to you? they are coming. emil grelieu coming? jeanne yes. you know their numbers and ours. don't be excited, but i think that it will be necessary for us to leave for antwerp today. emil grelieu are they near? jeanne yes, they are near. very near. _sings softly._ "le roi, la loi, la liberté." very near. i have not told you that the king inquired yesterday about your health. i answered that you were feeling better and that you will be able to leave today. emil grelieu of course i am able to leave today. and what did he say about them? jeanne what did the king say? _singing the same tune._ he said that their numbers were too great. emil grelieu what else did he say? what else, jeanne? jeanne what else? he said that there was a god and there was righteousness. that's what i believe i heard him say--that there was still a god and that righteousness was still in existence. how old these words are, emil! but it is so good that they still exist. _silence._ emil grelieu yes, in the daytime you are so different. where do you get so much strength, jeanne? jeanne where? emil grelieu i am forever looking at your hair. i am wondering why it hasn't turned gray. jeanne i dye it at night, emil. i'll bring in some more flowers. now it is very cozy here. oh, yes, i haven't told you yet--some one will be here to see you today--secretary lagard and some one else by the name of count clairmont. emil grelieu count clairmont? i don't know him. jeanne it is not necessary that you should know him. he is simply known as count clairmont, count clairmont--. that's a good name for a very good man. emil grelieu i know a very good man in belgium-jeanne tsh! you must not know anything. you must only remember--count clairmont. they have some important matters to discuss with you, i believe. and they'll send you an automobile, to take you to antwerp. emil grelieu _smiling._ count clairmont? jeanne _also smiling._ yes. you are loved by everybody, but if i were a king, i would have sent you an aeroplane. _throwing back her hands in sorrow which she is trying vainly to suppress._ ah, how good it would be now to rise from the ground and fly--and fly for a long, long time. _enter maurice._ maurice i am ready now, i have cleaned my teeth. i've even taken a walk in the garden. but i have never before noticed that we have such a beautiful garden! papa, our garden is wonderfully beautiful! jeanne coffee will be ready directly. if he disturbs you with his talk, call me, emil. maurice oh, i did not mean to disturb you. forgive me, papa. i'll not disturb you any more. emil grelieu you may speak, speak. i am feeling quite well, quite well. jeanne but you must save your strength, don't forget that, emil. _exit._ maurice _sitting down quietly at the window._ perhaps i really ought not to speak, papa? emil grelieu _smiling faintly._ can you be silent? maurice _blushing._ no, father, i cannot just now. i suppose i seem to you very young. emil grelieu and what do you think of it yourself? maurice _blushing again._ i am no longer as young as i was three weeks ago. yes, only three weeks ago--i remember the tolling of the bells in our church, i remember how i teased françois. how strange that françois has been lost and no one knows where he is. what does it mean that a human being is lost and no one knows where he is? before, one could see everything on earth. emil grelieu yes. maurice papa! why do they hang such people as françois? that is cruel and stupid. forgive me for speaking so harshly. but need an old man love his fatherland less than i love it, for instance? the old people love it even more intensely. let everyone fight as he can. i am not tiring you, am i? an old man came to us, he was very feeble, he asked for bullets--well, let them hang me too--i gave him bullets. a few of our regiment made sport of him, but he said: "if only one prussian bullet will strike me, it means that the prussians will have one bullet less." that appealed to me. emil grelieu yes, that appeals to me, too. have you heard the cannonading at dawn? maurice no. why, was there any cannonading? emil grelieu yes. i heard cannonading. did mamma tell you that they are coming nearer and nearer? they are approaching. maurice _rising._ really? impossible! emil grelieu they are coming, and we must leave for antwerp today. maurice yes. _he rises and walks back and forth, forgetting his wounded arm. he is greatly agitated. clenches his fist._ maurice father, tell me: what do you think of the present state of affairs? emil grelieu mamma says there is a god and there is righteousness. maurice _raising his hand._ mamma says----let god bless mamma! i don't know--i--. very well, very well. we shall see; we shall see! _his face twitches like a child's face. he is trying to repress his tears._ maurice i still owe them something for pierre. forgive me, father; i don't know whether i have a right to say this or not, but i am altogether different from you. it is wicked but i can't help it. i was looking this morning at your flowers in the garden and i felt so sorry--sorry for you, because you had grown them. those rascals! emil grelieu maurice! maurice the scoundrels! i don't want to consider them human beings, and i shall not consider them human beings. _enter jeanne._ jeanne what is it, maurice? that isn't right. maurice very well. _as he passes he embraces his mother with his left hand and kisses her._ jeanne you had better sit down. it is dangerous for your health to walk around this way. emil grelieu sit down, maurice. _maurice sits down at the window facing the garden. emil grelieu smiles sadly and closes his eyes. silvina, the maid, brings in coffee and sets it on the table near grelieu's bed._ silvina good morning, monsieur emil. emil grelieu _opening his eyes._ good morning, silvina. _exit silvina._ jeanne go and have your breakfast, maurice. maurice _without turning around._ i don't want any breakfast. mamma, i'll take off my bandage tomorrow. jeanne _laughing._ soldier, is it possible that you are capricious? _silence. jeanne helps emil grelieu with his coffee._ jeanne that's the way. is it convenient for you this way, or do you want to drink it with a spoon? emil grelieu oh, my poor head, it is so weak-maurice _going over to him._ forgive me, father, i'll not do it any more. i was foolishly excited, but do you know i could not endure it. may i have a cup, mamma? jeanne yes, this is yours. you feel better now? maurice yes, i do. emil grelieu i am feeling perfectly well today, jeanne. when is the bandage to be changed? jeanne later. count clairmont will bring his surgeon along with him. maurice who is that, mamma? have i seen him? jeanne you'll see him. but, please, maurice, when you see him, don't open your mouth so wide. you have a habit--you open your mouth and then you forget about it. maurice _blushing._ you are both looking at me and smiling. but i have time yet to grow. i have time yet to grow. _the sound of automobiles is heard._ jeanne _rising quickly._ i think they are here. maurice, this is only count clairmont, don't forget. i'll be back directly. they will speak with you about a very, very important matter, emil, but you must not be agitated. emil grelieu yes, i know. jeanne _kissing him quickly._ i am going. _exit, almost colliding with silvina, who is excited._ maurice _whispering._ who is it, silvina? _silvina makes some answer in mingled delight and awe. maurice's face assumes the same expression as silvina's. silvina goes out. maurice walks quickly to the window and raises his left hand to his forehead, straightening himself in military fashion. thus he stands until the others notice him._ _enter jeanne, count clairmont, followed by secretary lagard and the count's adjudant, an elderly general of stem appearance, with numerous decorations upon his chest. the count himself is tall, well built and young, in a modest officer's uniform, without any medals to signify his high station. he carries himself very modestly, almost bashfully, but overcoming his first uneasiness, he speaks warmly and powerfully and freely. his gestures are swift. all treat him with profound respect._ _lagard is a strong old man with a leonine gray head. he speaks simply, his gestures are calm and resolute. it is evident that he is in the habit of speaking from a platform._ _jeanne holds a large bouquet of flowers in her hands. count clairmont walks directly toward grelieu's bedside._ count clairmont _confused._ i have come to shake hands with you, my dear master. oh, but do not make a single unnecessary movement, not a single one, otherwise i shall be very unhappy! emil grelieu i am deeply moved, i am happy. count clairmont no, no, don't speak that way. here stands before you only a man who has learned to think from your books. but see what they have done to you--look, lagard! lagard how are you, grelieu? i, too, want to shake your hand. today i am a secretary by the will of fate, but yesterday i was only a physician, and i may congratulate you--you have a kind hand. let me feel your pulse. general _coming forward modestly._ allow me, too, in the name of this entire army of ours to express to you our admiration, monsieur grelieu! emil grelieu i thank you. i am feeling perfectly well, lagard. count clairmont but perhaps it is necessary to have a surgeon? jeanne he can listen and talk, count. he is smiling--he can listen. count clairmont _noticing maurice, confused._ oh! who is this? please put down your hand--you are wounded. maurice i am so happy, count. jeanne this is our second son. our first son, pierre, was killed at liège-count clairmont i dare not console you, madame grelieu. give me your hand, maurice. maurice oh, count! i am only a soldier. i dare not-count clairmont my dear young man, i, too, am nothing but a soldier now. your hand, comrade. that's the way. master! my children and my wife have sent you flowers--but where are they? oh! how absentminded i am. jeanne here they are, count. count clairmont thank you. but i did not know that your flowers were better than mine, for my flowers smell of smoke. lagard like all belgium. _to count clairmont._ his pulse is good. grelieu, we have come to you not only to express our sympathy. through me all the working people of belgium are shaking your hand. emil grelieu i am proud of it, lagard. lagard but we are just as proud. yes; there is something we must discuss with you. count clairmont did not wish to disturb you, but i said: "let him die, but before that we must speak to him." isn't that so, comrade? emil grelieu i am not dying. maurice, i think you had better go out. count clairmont _quickly._ oh, no, no. he is your son, grelieu, and he should be present to hear what his father will say. oh, i should have been proud to have such a father. lagard our count is a very fine young man--pardon me, count, i have again upset our-count clairmont that's nothing, i have already grown accustomed to it. master, it is necessary for you and your family to leave for antwerp today. emil grelieu are our affairs in such a critical condition? lagard what is there to tell? things are in bad shape, very bad. that horde of huns is coming upon us like the tide of the sea. today they are still there, but tomorrow they will flood your house, grelieu. they are coming toward antwerp. to what can we resort in our defence? on this side are they, and there is the sea. only very little is left of belgium, grelieu. very soon there will be no room even for my beard here. isn't that so, count? _silence. dull sounds of cannonading are heard in the distance. all turn their eyes to the window._ emil grelieu is that a battle? count clairmont _listening, calmly._ no, that is only the beginning. but tomorrow they will carry their devilish weapons past your house. do you know they are real iron monsters, under whose weight our earth is quaking and groaning. they are moving slowly, like amphibia that have crawled out at night from the abyss--but they are moving! another few days will pass, and they will crawl over to antwerp, they will turn their jaws to the city, to the churches--woe to belgium, master! woe to belgium! lagard yes, it is very bad. we are an honest and peaceful people despising bloodshed, for war is such a stupid affair! and we should not have had a single soldier long ago were it not for this accursed neighbor, this den of murderers. general and what would we have done without any soldiers, monsieur lagard? lagard and what can we do with soldiers, monsieur general? count clairmont you are wrong, lagard. with our little army there is still one possibility--to die as freemen die. but without an army we would have been bootblacks, lagard! lagard _grumbling._ well, i would not clean anybody's boots. things are in bad shape, grelieu, in very bad shape. and there is but one remedy left for us--. true, it is a terrible remedy. emil grelieu i know. lagard yes? what is it? emil grelieu the dam. _jeanne and emil shudder and look at each other with terror in their eyes._ count clairmont you shuddered, you are shuddering, madame. but what am i to do, what are we to do, we who dare not shudder? jeanne oh, i simply thought of a girl who was trying to find her way to lonua. she will never find her way to lonua. count clairmont but what is to be done? what is to be done? _all become thoughtful. the count steps away to the window and looks out, nervously twitching his mustaches. maurice has moved aside and, as before, stands at attention. jeanne stands a little distance away from him, with her shoulder leaning against the wall, her beautiful pale head thrown back. lagard is sitting at the bedside as before, stroking his gray, disheveled beard. the general is absorbed in gloomy thoughts._ count clairmont _turning around resolutely._ i am a peaceful man, but i can understand why people take up arms. arms! that means a sword, a gun, explosive contrivances. that is fire. fire is killing people, but at the same time it also gives light. fire cleanses. there is something of the ancient sacrifice in it. but water! cold, dark, silent, covering with mire, causing bodies to swell--water, which was the beginning of chaos; water, which is guarding the earth by day and night in order to rush upon it. my friend, believe me, i am quite a daring man, but i am afraid of water! lagard, what would you say to that? lagard we belgians have too long been struggling against the water not to have learned to fear it. i am also afraid of water. jeanne but what is more terrible, the prussians or water? general _bowing._ madame is right. the prussians are not more terrible, but they are worse. lagard yes. we have no other choice. it is terrible to release water from captivity, the beast from its den, nevertheless it is a better friend to us than the prussians. i would prefer to see the whole of belgium covered with water rather than extend a hand of reconciliation to a scoundrel! neither they nor we shall live to see that, even if the entire atlantic ocean rush over our heads. _brief pause._ general but i hope that we shall not come to that. meanwhile it is necessary for us to flood only part of our territory. that is not so terrible. jeanne _her eyes closed, her head hanging down._ and what is to be done with those who could not abandon their homes, who are deaf, who are sick and alone? what will become of our children? _silence._ jeanne there in the fields and in the ditches are the wounded. there the shadows of people are wandering about, but in their veins there is still warm blood. what will become of them? oh, don't look at me like that, emil; you had better not listen to what i am saying. i have spoken so only because my heart is wrung with pain--it isn't necessary to listen to me at all, count. _count clairmont walks over to grelieu's bed quickly and firmly. at first he speaks confusedly, seeking the right word; then he speaks ever more boldly and firmly._ count clairmont my dear and honored master! we would not have dared to take from you even a drop of your health, if--if it were not for the assurance that serving your people may give new strength to your heroic soul! yesterday, it was resolved at our council to break the dams and flood part of our kingdom, but i could not, i dared not, give my full consent before i knew what you had to say to this plan. i did not sleep all night long, thinking--oh, how terrible, how inexpressibly sad my thoughts were! we are the body, we are the hands, we are the head--while you, grelieu, you are the conscience of our people. blinded by the war, we may unwillingly, unwittingly, altogether against our will, violate man-made laws. let your noble heart tell us the truth. my friend! we are driven to despair, we have no belgium any longer, it is trampled by our enemies, but in your breast, emil grelieu, the heart of all belgium is beating--and your answer will be the answer of our tormented, blood-stained, unfortunate land! _he turns away to the window. maurice is crying, looking at his father._ lagard _softly._ bravo, belgium! _silence. the sound of cannonading is heard._ jeanne _softly, to maurice._ sit down, maurice, it is hard for you to stand. maurice oh, mamma! i am so happy to stand here now-lagard now i shall add a few words. as you know, grelieu, i am a man of the people. i know the price the people pay for their hard work. i know the cost of all these gardens, orchards and factories which we shall bury under the water. they have cost us sweat and health and tears, grelieu. these are our sufferings which will be transformed into joy for our children. but as a nation that loves and respects liberty above its sweat and blood and tears--as a nation, i say, i would prefer that sea waves should seethe here over our heads rather than that we should have to black the boots of the prussians. and if nothing but islands remain of belgium they will be known as "honest islands," and the islanders will be belgians as before. _all are agitated._ emil grelieu and what do the engineers say? general _respectfully waiting for the count's answer._ monsieur grelieu, they say this can be done in two hours. lagard _grumbles._ in two hours! in two hours! how many years have we been building it! general the engineers were crying when they said it, monsieur. lagard the engineers were crying? but how could they help crying? think of it, grelieu! _suddenly he bursts into sobs, and slowly takes a handkerchief from his pocket._ count clairmont we are awaiting your answer impatiently, grelieu. you are charged with a grave responsibility to your fatherland--to lift your hand against your own fatherland. emil grelieu have we no other defence? _silence. all stand in poses of painful anxiety. lagard dries his eyes and slowly answers with a sigh_. lagard no. general no. jeanne _shaking her head._ no. count clairmont _rapidly._ we must gain time, grelieu. by the power of all our lives, thrown in the fields, we cannot stop them. _stamping his foot._ time, time! we must steal from fate a small part of eternity--a few days, a week! they are hastening to us. the russians are coming to us from the east. the german steel has already penetrated to the heart of the french land--and infuriated with pain, the french eagle is rising over the germans' bayonets and is coming toward us! the noble knights of the sea--the british--are already rushing toward us, and to belgium are their powerful arms stretched out over the abyss. but, time, time! give us time, grelieu. belgium is praying for a few days, for a few hours! you have already given to belgium your blood, grelieu, and you have the right to lift your hand against your blood-stained fatherland! _brief pause._ emil grelieu we must break the dams. _curtain_ scene v _night. a small house occupied by the german staff. a sentinel on guard at the door leading to the rooms occupied by the commander of the army. all the doors and windows are open. the room is illuminated with candles. two officers on duty are talking lazily, suffering apparently from the heat. all is quiet in the camp. only from time to time the measured footsteps of pickets are heard, and muffled voices and angry exclamations._ von ritzau do you feel sleepy, von stein? von stein i don't feel sleepy, but i feel like smoking. ritzau a bad habit! but you may smoke near the window. stein but what if _he_ should come in? thank you, von ritzau. what a stifling night! not a breath of pure air enters the lungs. the air is poisoned with the smell of smoke. we must invent something against this obnoxious odor. take it up, ritzau. ritzau i am not an inventor. first of all it is necessary to wring out the air as they wring the clothes they wash, and dry it in the sun. it is so moist, i feel as though i were diving in it. do you know whether _he_ is in a good mood today? stein why, is he subject to moods, good or bad? ritzau great self-restraint! stein have you ever seen him undressed--or half-dressed? or have you ever seen his hair in disorder? he is a wonderful old man! ritzau he speaks so devilishly little, stein. stein he prefers to have his cannon speak. it is quite a powerful voice, isn't it, ritzau? _they laugh softly. a tall, handsome officer enters quickly and goes toward the door leading to the room of the commander._ blumenfeld! any news? _the tall officer waves his hand and opens the door cautiously, ready to make his bow._ he is malting his career! ritzau he is a good fellow. i can't bear it, stein. i am suffocating here. stein would you rather be in paris? ritzau i would prefer any less unbearable country to this. how dull it must be here in the winter time. stein but we have saved them from dullness for a long time to come. were you ever in the montmartre cafés, ritzau? ritzau of course! stein doesn't one find there a wonderful refinement, culture and innate elegance? unfortunately, our berlin people are far different. ritzau oh, of course. great! _the tall officer comes out of the door, stepping backward. he heaves a sigh of relief and sits down near the two officers. takes out a cigar._ von blumenfeld how are things? ritzau very well. we were talking of paris. stein then i am going to smoke too. blumenfeld you may smoke. he is not coming out do you want to hear important news? stein well? blumenfeld he laughed just now i stein really! blumenfeld upon my word of honor! and he touched my shoulder with two fingers--do you understand? stein _with envy._ of course! i suppose you brought him good news, blumenfeld? _the military telegraphist, standing at attention, hands blumenfeld a folded paper._ telegraphist a radiogram, lieutenant! blumenfeld let me have it. _slowly he puts his cigar on the window sill and enters the commander's room cautiously._ stein he's a lucky fellow. you may say what you please about luck, but it exists. who is this blumenfeld? von?--did you know his father? or his grandfather? ritzau i have reason to believe that he had no grandfather at all. but he is a good comrade. _blumenfeld comes out and rejoins the two officers, taking up his cigar._ stein another military secret? blumenfeld of course. everything that is said and done here is a military secret. but i may tell you about it. the information we have received concerns our new siege guns--they are advancing successfully. stein oho! blumenfeld yes, successfully. they have just passed the most difficult part of the road--you know where the swamps are-stein oh, yes. ritzau great! blumenfeld the road could not support the heavy weight and caved in. our commander was very uneasy. he ordered a report about the movement at each and every kilometer. stein now he will sleep in peace. blumenfeld he never sleeps, von stein. stein that's true. blumenfeld he never sleeps, von stein! when he is not listening to reports or issuing commands, he is thinking. as the personal correspondent of his highness i have the honor to know many things which others are not allowed to know--oh, gentlemen, he has a wonderful mind! ritzau great! _another very young officer enters, stands at attention before blumenfeld._ blumenfeld sit down, von schauss. i am talking about our commander. schauss oh! blumenfeld he has a german philosophical mind which manages guns as leibnitz managed ideas. everything is preconceived, everything is prearranged, the movement of our millions of people has been elaborated into such a remarkable system that kant himself would have been proud of it. gentlemen, we are led forward by indomitable logic and by an iron will. we are inexorable as fate. _the officers express their approval by subdued exclamations of "bravo."_ blumenfeld how can he sleep, if the movement of our armies is but the movement of parts of his brains! and what is the use of sleep in general? i sleep very little myself, and i advise you, gentlemen, not to indulge in foolish sleep. ritzau but our human organism requires sleep. blumenfeld nonsense! organism--that is something invented by the doctors who are looking for practice among the fools. i know of no organism. i know only my desires and my will, which says: "gerhardt, do this! gerhardt, go there! gerhardt, take this!" and i take it! ritzau great! schauss will you permit me to take down your words in my notebook? blumenfeld please, schauss. what is it you want, zigler? _the telegraphist has entered._ zigler i really don't know, but something strange has happened. it seems that we are being interfered with, i can't understand anything. blumenfeld what is it? what is the matter? zigler we can make out one word, "water"--but after that all is incomprehensible. and then again, "water"-blumenfeld what water? you are intoxicated, zigler. that must be wine, not water. is the engineer there? zigler he is also surprised and cannot understand. blumenfeld you are a donkey, zigler! we'll have to call out-_the commander comes out. he is a tall, erect old man. his face is pale. his voice is dry and unimpassioned._ commander blumenfeld! _all jump up, straighten themselves, as if petrified._ what is this? blumenfeld i have not yet investigated it, your highness. zigler is reporting-commander what is it, zigler? zigler your highness, we are being interfered with. i don't know what it is, but i can't understand anything. we have been able to make out only one word--"water." then again--"water." commander _turning around._ see what it is, blumenfeld, and report to me-_engineer runs in._ engineer where is blumenfeld? i beg your pardon, your highness! commander _pausing._ what has happened there, kloetz? engineer they don't respond to our calls, your highness. they are silent like the dead. something has happened there. commander you think something serious has happened? engineer i dare not think so, your highness, but i am alarmed. silence is the only answer to our most energetic calls. but greitzer wishes to say something. ... well? what is it, greitzer? _the second telegraphist has entered quietly._ greitzer they are silent, your highness. _brief pause._ commander _again turning to the door._ please investigate this, lieutenant. _he advances a step to the door, then stops. there is a commotion behind the windows--a noise and the sound of voices. the word "water" is repeated frequently. the noise keeps growing, turning at times into a loud roar._ what is that? _all turn to the window. an officer, bareheaded, rushes in excitedly, his hair disheveled, his face pale._ officer i want to see his highness. i want to see his highness! blumenfeld _hissing._ you are insane! commander calm yourself, officer. officer your highness! i have the honor to report to you that the belgians have burst the dams, and our armies are flooded. water! _with horror._ we must hurry, your highness! commander hurry! i ask you to calm yourself, officer. what about our guns? officer they are flooded, your highness. commander compose yourself, you are not behaving properly! i am asking you about our field guns-officer they are flooded, your highness. the water is coming this way. we must hurry, your highness, we are in a valley. this place is very low. they have broken the dams; and the water is rushing this way violently. it is only five kilometers away from here--and we can hardly--. i beg your pardon, your highness! _silence. the commotion without is growing louder. glimmering lights appear. the beginning of a terrible panic is felt, embracing the entire camp. all watch impatiently the reddening face of the commander._ commander but this is-_he strikes the table with his fist forcibly._ absurd! _he looks at them with cold fury, but all lower their eyes. the frightened officer is trembling and gazing at the window. the lights grow brighter outside--it is evident that a building has been set on fire. the voices without have turned into a roar. a dull noise, then the crash of shots is heard. the discipline is disappearing gradually._ blumenfeld they have gone mad! officer they are firing! it is an attack! stein but that can't be the belgians! ritzau they may have availed themselves-blumenfeld aren't you ashamed, stein? aren't you ashamed, gentlemen? commander silence! i beg of you-_suddenly a piercing, wild sound of a horn is heard ordering to retreat. the roaring sound is growing rapidly._ commander _shots._ who has commanded to retreat? who dares command when i am here? what a disgrace, blumenfeld! order them to return! _blumenfeld lowers his head._ commander this is not the german army! you are unworthy of being called soldiers! shame! i am ashamed to call myself your general! cowards! blumenfeld _stepping forward, with dignity._ your highness! officer eh! we are not fishes to swim in the water! _runs out, followed by two or three others. the panic is growing._ blumenfeld your highness! we ask you--. your life is in danger--your highness. _some one else runs out. the room is almost empty. only the sentinel remains in the position of one petrified._ blumenfeld your highness! i implore you. your life--i am afraid that another minute, and it will be too late! oh, your highness! commander but this is-_again strikes the table with his fist._ but this is absurd, blumenfeld! _curtain_ scene vi _the same hour of night. in the darkness it is difficult to discern the silhouettes of the ruined buildings and of the trees. at the right, a half-destroyed bridge. in the distance a fire is burning. from time to time the german flashlights are seen across the dark sky. near the bridge, an automobile in which the wounded emil grelieu and his son are being carried to antwerp. jeanne and a young physician are with them. something has broken down in the automobile and a soldier-chauffeur is bustling about with a lantern trying to repair it. dr. langloi stands near him._ doctor _uneasily._ well? how is it? chauffeur _examining._ i don't know yet. doctor is it a serious break? chauffeur no--i don't know. maurice _from the automobile._ what is it, doctor? can't we start? chauffeur _angrily._ we'll start! doctor i don't know. something is out of order. he says it isn't serious. maurice shall we stay here long? doctor _to the chauffeur._ shall we stay here long? chauffeur _angrily._ how do i know? about ten minutes i think. please hold the light for me. _hands the lantern to the doctor._ maurice then i will come out. jeanne you had better stay here, maurice. you may hurt your arm. maurice no, mother, i am careful. where is the step? how inconvenient. why don't they throw the flashlight here? _jumps off and watches the chauffeur at work._ maurice how unfortunate that we are stuck here! chauffeur _grumbling._ a bridge! how can anybody drive across such a bridge? doctor yes, it is unfortunate. we should have started out earlier. maurice _shrugging his shoulders._ father did not want to leave. how could we start? mamina, do you think our people are already in antwerp? jeanne yes, i think so. emil, aren't you cold? emil grelieu no. it is very pleasant to breathe the fresh air. i feel stronger. doctor _to maurice._ i think we are still in the region which-maurice yes. what time is it, doctor? doctor _looking at his watch._ twenty--a quarter of ten. maurice then it is a quarter of an hour since the bursting of the dams. yes! mamma, do you hear, it is a quarter of ten now! jeanne yes, i hear. maurice but it is strange that we haven't heard any explosions. doctor how can you say that, monsieur maurice? it is very far away. maurice i thought that such explosions would be heard a hundred kilometers away. my god, how strange it is! our house and our garden will soon be flooded! i wonder how high the water will rise. do you think it will reach up to the second story? doctor possibly. well, how are things moving? chauffeur _grumbling._ i am working. maurice look, look! mamma, see how the searchlights are working. they seem to be frightened. father, do you see them? emil grelieu jeanne, lift me a little. jeanne my dear, i don't know whether i am allowed to do it. doctor you may lift him a little, if it isn't very painful. the bandage is tight. jeanne do you feel any pain? emil grelieu no. they are frightened. maurice father, they are flashing the searchlights across the sky like madmen. look, look! _a bluish light is flashed over them, faintly illuminating the whole group._ maurice right into my eyes! does that come from an elevation, father? emil grelieu i suppose so. either they have been warned, or the water is reaching them by this time. jeanne do you think so, emil? emil grelieu yes. it seems to me that i hear the sound of the water from that side. _all listen and look in the direction from which the noise came._ doctor _uneasily._ how unpleasant this is! we should have started out sooner. we are too late. maurice father, it seems to me i hear voices. listen--it sounds as though they are crying there. many, many people. father, the prussians are crying. it is they! _a distant, dull roaring of a crowd is heard. then the crash of shots resounds. sobs of military horns. the searchlights are swaying from side to side._ emil grelieu it is they. doctor if we don't start in a quarter of an hour-emil grelieu in half an hour, doctor. maurice father, how beautiful and how terrible it is! give me your hand, mother. jeanne what is it? maurice i want to kiss it. mother, you have no gloves on! jeanne what a foolish little boy you are, maurice. maurice monsieur langloi said that in three days from now i may remove my bandage. just think of it, in three days i shall be able to take up my gun again!... oh, who is that? look, who is that? _all near the automobile assume defensive positions. the chauffeur and the doctor draw their revolvers. a figure appears from the field, approaching from one of the ditches. a peasant, wounded in the leg, comes up slowly, leaning upon a cane._ maurice who is there? peasant our own, our own. and who are you? are you going to the city? maurice yes, we're going to the city. our car has broken down, we're repairing it. what are you doing here? peasant what am i doing here? _examines the unfamiliar faces curiously. they also look at him attentively, by the light of the lantern._ chauffeur give me the light! peasant are you carrying a wounded man? i am also wounded, in my leg. i cannot walk, it is very hard. i must lean on my cane. are you going to the city? i lay there in the ditch and when i heard you speak french i crawled out. my name is jaqular. doctor how were you wounded? peasant i was walking in the field and they shot me. they must have thought i was a rabbit. _laughs hoarsely._ they must have thought i was a rabbit. what is the news, gentlemen? is our belgium lost? _laughs._ eh? is our belgium lost? maurice don't you know? peasant what can i know? i lay there and looked at the sky--that's all i know. did you see the sky? just look at it, i have been watching it all the time. what is that i see in the sky, eh? how would you explain it? emil grelieu sit down near us. maurice listen, sit down here. it seems you haven't heard anything. you must get away from here. do you know that the dams are broken? do you understand? the dams! peasant the dams? maurice yes. don't you hear the cries over there? listen! they are crying there--the prussians! peasant water? maurice water. it must be reaching them now. they must have learned of it by this time. listen, it is so far, and yet we can hear! _the peasant laughs hoarsely._ maurice sit down, right here, the automobile is large. doctor, help him. i will hold the lantern. chauffeur _muttering._ sit down, sit down! eh! doctor _uneasily._ what is it? bad? chauffeur, be quick! we can't stay here! the water is coming. we should have started out earlier. maurice what an unfortunate mishap! jeanne _agitated._ they shot you like a rabbit? do you hear, emil--they thought a rabbit was running! did you resemble a rabbit so closely? _she laughs loudly, the peasant also laughs._ peasant i look like a rabbit! exactly like a rabbit. jeanne do you hear, emil? he says he looks exactly like a rabbit! _laughs._ emil grelieu jeanne! maurice mamma! jeanne it makes me laugh--it seems so comical to me that they mistake us for rabbits. and now, what are we now--water rats? emil, just picture to yourself, water rats in an automobile! maurice mamma! jeanne no, no, i am not laughing any more, maurice! _laughs._ and what else are we? moles? must we hide in the ground? peasant _laughs._ and now we must hide in the ground-jeanne _in the same tone._ and they will remain on the ground? emil, do you hear? emil grelieu my dear! my dear! maurice _to the doctor._ listen, you must do something. haven't you anything? listen! mamma, we are starting directly, my dear! jeanne no, never mind, i am not laughing any more. how foolish you are. maurice, i simply felt like talking. i was silent too long. i was forever silent, but just now i felt like chattering. emil, i am not disturbing you with my talk, am i? why is the water so quiet, emil? it was the king who said, "the water is silent," was it not? but i should like to see it roar, crash like thunder.... no, i cannot, i cannot bear this silence! ah, why is it so quiet--i cannot bear it! maurice _to the chauffeur._ my dear fellow, please hurry up! chauffeur yes, yes! i'm working, i'm working. we'll start soon. jeanne _suddenly cries, threatening._ but i cannot bear it! i cannot! _covers her mouth with her hands; sobs._ i cannot! maurice mamma! emil grelieu all will end well, jeanne. all will end well. i know. i also feel as you do. but all will end well, jeanne! jeanne _sobbing, but calming herself somewhat._ i cannot bear it! emil grelieu all will end well, jeanne! belgium will live! the sun will shine! i am suffering, but i know this, jeanne! maurice quicker! quicker! chauffeur in a moment, in a moment. now it is fixed, in a moment. emil grelieu _faintly._ jeanne! jeanne yes, yes, i know.... forgive me, forgive me, i will soon-_a loud, somewhat hoarse voice of a girl comes from the dark._ girl tell me how i can find my way to lonua! _exclamations of surprise._ maurice who is that? jeanne emil, it is that girl! _laughs._ she is also like a rabbit! doctor _grumbles._ what is it, what is it--who? _throws the light on the girl. her dress is torn, her eyes look wild. the peasant is laughing._ peasant she is here again? chauffeur let me have the light! doctor very well! girl _loudly._ how can i find my way to lonua? emil grelieu maurice, you must stop her! my child, my child! doctor, you-chauffeur put down the lantern! the devil take this! girl _shouts._ hands off! no, no, you will not dare-maurice you can't catch her-_the girl runs away._ emil grelieu doctor, you must catch her! she will perish here, quick-_she runs away. the doctor follows her in the dark._ peasant she asked me, too, how to go to lonua. how am i to know? lonua! _the girl's voice resounds in the dark and then there is silence._ emil grelieu you must catch her! what is it? you must! maurice but how, father? _they listen. silence. dull cries of a mob resound. jeanne breaks into muffled laughter._ maurice _mutters._ now he is gone! oh, my god! chauffeur _triumphantly._ take your seats! ready! maurice but the doctor isn't here. oh, my god! father, what shall we do now? chauffeur let us call him. eh! _maurice and the chauffeur call: "doctor! eh! langloi!"_ chauffeur _angrily._ i must deliver monsieur grelieu, and i will deliver him. take your seats! maurice _shouts._ langloi! _a faint echo in the distance._ come! doctor! _the response is nearer._ peasant he did not catch her. you cannot catch her. she asked me, too, about the road to lonua. she is insane. _laughs._ there are many like her now. emil grelieu _imploringly._ jeanne! jeanne but i cannot, emil. what is it? i cannot understand. what is it? where are we? my god, i don't understand anything. i used to understand, i used to understand, but now--where is pierre? _firmly._ where is pierre? maurice oh, will he be here soon? mother dear, we'll start in a moment! jeanne yes, yes, we'll start in a moment! but i don't understand anything. where are we? why such a dream, why such a dream? i can't understand! who has come? my head is aching. who has come? why has it happened? _a mice from the darkness, quite near._ jeanne _frightened._ who is shouting? what a strange dream, what a terrible, terrible, terrible dream. where is pierre? maurice mother! jeanne i cannot! _lowering her voice._ i cannot--why are you torturing me? where is pierre? emil grelieu he is dead, jeanne! jeanne no!!! emil grelieu he is dead, jeanne. but i swear to you by god, jeanne!--belgium will live. weep, sob, you are a mother. i too am crying with you--but i swear by god: belgium will live! god has given me the light to see, and i can see. songs will resound here. jeanne! a new spring will come here, the trees will be covered with blossoms--i swear to you, jeanne, they will be covered with blossoms! and mothers will caress their children, and the sun will shine upon their heads, upon their golden-haired little heads! jeanne! there will be no more bloodshed. i see a new world, jeanne! i see my nation: here it is advancing with palm leaves to meet god who has come to earth again. weep, jeanne, you are a mother! weep, unfortunate mother--god weeps with you. but there will be happy mothers here again--i see a new world, jeanne, i see a new life! _curtain_ (images generously provided by the internet archive.) the dark by leonid andreev translated by l. a. magnus and k. walter 1922 published by leonard and virginia woolf at the hogarth press, hogarth house, richmond as a rule success had accompanied him in all his undertakings, but during the last three days complications had arisen which were unfavourable, not to say critical. his life, though a short one, had long been a game of terrible hazards; he was accustomed to these sudden turns of chance and could deal with them; the stake had before been life itself, his own and others', and this by itself had taught him alertness, swiftness of thought, and a cold hard outlook. chance this time had turned dangerously against him. a mere fluke, one of those unforeseeable accidents, had provided the police with a clue; for two whole days the detectives had been on his track, a known terrorist and nihilist, drawing the net ever closer round him. one after another the conspirators' hiding places had been cut off from him; there still remained to him a few streets and boulevards and restaurants where he might go undiscovered. but his terrible exhaustion, after two sleepless nights and days of ceaseless vigilance, had brought in its train a new danger: he might drop off to sleep anywhere, on a seat in the boulevards, even in a cab, and be ludicrously arrested as a common drunk. it was now tuesday. on thursday--only one day to spare--he had to carry out a terrorist act of great importance. the preparations for the assassination had kept the little organization busy for some considerable time. the »honour« of throwing the last and decisive bomb had fallen to him. he must retain self-command at all costs. but sleep.... it was thus, on that october evening, standing at the crossing of crowded streets, that he decided to take refuge in a brothel. he would have had recourse earlier to this refuge, though none too secure, had it not been for the good reason that all his twenty-six years he had been chaste, had never known women as mere women, had never been in a brothel. now and then he had had to fight sternly against such desires, but gradually restraint had become habit, and had produced in him an attitude of calmness and complete indifference towards the sex. so now, at the thought of being forced into close contact with a woman who traded in such pleasures, and of perhaps seeing her naked, he had forebodings of any number of unpleasantnesses and awkward moments. true, he had only decided to go to a prostitute now, when his passion was quiescent, when a step had to be taken so important and serious that virginity and the struggle for it lost their value. but in any event it was unpleasant, as might be any other obnoxious incident which must be endured. once, when assisting in an important act, in which he played the part of second bomb-thrower, he saw a horse which had been killed with its hind parts burst open and the entrails exposed; this incident, its filthy and disgusting character, and its needlessness, gave him a similar sensation--in its way even more unpleasant than the death of a comrade from an exploding bomb. and the more quietly and fearlessly, and even joyously, he anticipated thursday, when he would probably have to die, the more was he oppressed with the prospect of a night with a woman who practised love as a profession, a thing utterly ridiculous, an incarnation of chaos, senseless, petty, and dirty. but there was no alternative. he was tottering with fatigue. * * * * * it was still early when he arrived, about ten o'clock; but the great white hall with its gilded chairs and mirrors was ready for the reception of guests, and all the fires were lighted. the pianist was sitting beside the piano, a dapper young man in a black frock coat--for it was an expensive house. he was smoking, carefully flicking the ash of his cigarette so as not to soil the carpet, and glancing over the music. in the corner near the darkened dining room there sat all arow, on three chairs, three girls whispering to one another. as he entered with the manageress, two of the girls rose, but the third remained sitting; the two who rose were very décolletée, the third wore a deep black frock. the two looked at him straight, with a look of invitation, half indifferent, half weary; but the third turned aside. her profile was calm and simple, like that of any proper young maiden,--a thoughtful face. apparently she had been telling a story to the others, and the others had been listening, and now she was continuing the train of thought, telling the rest in silence. and just because she was silent and reflective and did not look at him, because she had the appearance of a proper woman, he chose her. never before having been to a brothel he did not know that in every well equipped house of this sort there are one or two such women, dressed in black like nuns or young widows, with pale faces, unrouged, even stern, their task being to provide an illusion of propriety to those who seek it,--but when they go with a man to their room, drinking and becoming like the rest, or even worse,--brawling and breaking the china, dancing about, undressing and dancing into the hall naked, and even killing men who are too importunate. such are the women with whom drunken students fall in love, whom they persuade to begin new, honourable lives. but of all this he knew nothing. and when she rose reluctantly, and looked at him with displeased and averted eyes, glancing at him sharply out of her pale and colourless face, he thought once again, »how very proper she is!«--and felt some relief. but, keeping up the dissimulation, constant, unavoidable, which caused him to have two lives and made his life a stage, he balanced himself elegantly on his feet from his heels to his toes, snapped his fingers, and said to the girl with the careless air of a habitual debauchee:-»well, what about it, my dear? shall we pay you a visit, now, eh? where is your little nest?« »now--at once?« the girl asked, surprised, and raised her eyebrows. he smiled gaily, disclosing even rows of strong straight teeth, blushed deeply, and replied: »certainly. why lose valuable time?« »there will be some music soon. we can dance.« »dance, my fair charmer? silly twiddles,--catching oneself by the tail. as to the music, it can be heard from up there?« she looked at him and smiled. »fairly well.« she was beginning to like him. he had prominent cheek bones and was clean shaven; his cheeks and the lower part of the mouth, under the clean-cut lips, were slightly blue, as when dark-bearded men shave. he had fine dark eyes, although in expression a little too unswerving; and they moved slowly and heavily, as though every movement were a great distance to be traversed. but despite his shaven face and easy manner, she reasoned, he did not resemble an actor, but rather an acclimatized foreigner. »you are not a german?« she asked. »nnno. not quite. i mean, i am an englishman. do you like englishmen?« »but what good russian you speak! i should never have guessed!« he recollected his british passport and the affected accent he had been using lately, and he blushed again at the thought of having forgotten to keep up the pretence as he ought to have done. then with a slight frown, and assuming a business-like dryness of tone in which a certain amount of weariness was perceptible, he took the girl by the elbow and led her along swiftly. »no, i am a russian, russian. now, where are we to go? show me! this way?« the large mirror showed the full-length figures of the pair sharply and clearly--she in black, pale, and at that distance very pretty; he also in black, and just as pale. under the glare of the electric lights hanging from the ceiling his wide forehead and the hard mass of his prominent cheeks were peculiarly pale; and both in his face and the girl's, where the eyes should have been, there were mysterious, fascinating hollows. and so strange was the picture of such a black stern couple against the white walls, reflected in the broad gilded mirror, that he was startled, and stopped short by the thought: »like a bride and bridegroom.« and, as his imagination was dulled by want of sleep, and his thoughts brusque and inconsequent, the next moment, looking at the stern pair in mourning black, he thought: »as at a funeral.« and both notions were equally unpleasant. apparently his feelings were shared by the girl. she silently, wonderingly glanced at herself and him, him and herself; she tried to wink--but the mirror would not respond to so slight a movement, and in the same dull and obstinate manner persisted in picturing this black shamefast couple. and perhaps this pleased the girl, or recalled something of herself, something sad, for she smiled gently, and lightly pressed his clenched hand. »what a couple!« she said reflectively, and for some reason or other the dark bow of her eye-lashes, with the fine curve of their droop, became more noticeable. this he did not observe, but resolutely dragged the girl along with him, she tapping her way on high french heels on the parquet flooring. there was a corridor, as there always is, and narrow dark little rooms with open doors. at one of them inscribed above in irregular handwriting, »liuba«, they entered. »and now, liuba,« he said, looking round and unconsciously rubbing his hands one over the other, as though carefully washing them in cold water, »don't we want wine and something else? or some fruit?« »fruit is expensive here.« »that doesn't matter. do you drink wine?« he had forgotten himself and was addressing her as you; he noticed it, but did not correct himself, for there had been something in that touch of her hand which made him unwilling to use the familiar pronoun, or play the lover and act a part. this feeling, too, passed on to her; she stared at him fixedly, and answered deliberately, with some uncertainty in her voice, though none in the language she used. »thank you. i do drink. wait a moment. i will return at once. i will tell them to bring only two pears and two apples. will that be enough?« it was now she who was using the pronoun of politeness, and through the tone of voice in which she spoke the word there could be heard the same irresolution, a slight hesitation and interrogation. but he paid no attention to this. when he was alone, he went swiftly to work surveying the room from all sides. he tested the closing of the door--it closed splendidly, on the latch and on the key; went to the window, opened both casements--it was high up on the second floor and looked out on the courtyard. he frowned and shook his head. then he experimented on the lights; there were two of them; when the one on the ceiling was switched off, the other by the bed lit up under a little red hood--just as in the best hotels. but the bed! he grinned and raised his shoulders, as though laughing silently, distorting his face as people must who are stealthy and for some reason secretive, even when they are alone. but the bed! he walked round it, handled the wadded counterpane, and then with a sudden longing to be gay and saucy in his joy at the sleep he was going to have, he twisted his head like a boy, stuck out his lips, made round eyes--all to express his highest degree of amazement. but at once he became serious again, sat down, and wearily waited for liuba. he wanted to think of thursday, that he was now in a brothel--that he was already there--but the thought rebelled and stubbornly resisted him. outraged sleep was taking its revenge. there on the street, sleep had been so gentle; now it no longer caressed his face, as with a soft downy hand, but made his own hands and feet writhe, and racked his body as though it would rend him asunder. suddenly he began yawning, even to the point of tears. he took out his browning and three full clips of cartridges, and savagely blew down the barrel, as into a key. it was all in order ... and he longed insufferably for sleep. when the wine and fruit were brought in, and liuba came in after them, he shut the door, only on the latch, and said: »well ... all right ... please help yourself, liuba. please do.« »and you ...?« the girl, surprised, looked at him askance. »i will ... later on. for two nights, you see, i have been having a gay time of it and have had no sleep, and now....« he yawned frightfully, straining his jaws. »well...?« »i will ... later. just an hour. i will ... soon. and you, please drink and don't spare. and eat the fruit. why did you get so little?« »but may i go into the hall? there will be some music.« this was inconvenient. they might begin talking about him, the strange guest who had gone to sleep, and might start guessing ... and that might be awkward. so, lightly restraining a yawn which was already riving his jaws, he said sedately and earnestly: »no, liuba. i shall ask you to stay here. you see, i don't much like sleeping alone in a room. it's a mere whim, but you will excuse me....« »certainly. you have paid your money and....« »yes, yes,« and he blushed for the third time, »quite true, but that isn't what i mean.... and, if you like ... you can lie down too. i will leave room for you. only please lie next the wall. you don't mind?« »no, i don't want to sleep. i will just sit here.« »will you read?« »there are no books here.« » would you like today's paper? i have it here. there is something interesting in it.« »no, thank you.« »as you like. you know best. but ... with your permission....« he shut and locked the door and put the key in his pocket, without noticing the strange look with which the girl followed his movements. this courteous and decent conversation, such a curious conversation in this home of misery where the very air was thick with the vapours of drunken brawls, seemed to him perfectly natural and quite convincing. with the same polite air, as though he were in the company of young ladies, he touched the edge of his frock-coat and asked: »do you mind if i take off my coat?« the girl scowled slightly. »certainly. of course....« »and my waistcoat? it's so tight.« the girl did not answer, but merely shrugged her shoulders. »here is my pocket-book ... and money. will you be so good as to take care of them for me?« »you had better leave them at the office. we always deposit such things there.« »why?« he looked at the girl, and turned aside in confusion. »oh, of course ... but that's silly!« »but do you know how much you have on you? some people don't know, and then afterwards....« »i understand. quite. you desire....« he lay down, politely leaving room for her by the wall. and enchanting sleep, spaciously smiling, came and nestled with its downy cheek against his, gently fondled him, stroking his knees, and mercifully settling to rest with its soft, velvety head on his shoulder. he smiled. »what makes you smile?« the girl smiled involuntarily. »because i am comfortable.... how soft your pillows are! now we can talk awhile. why don't you drink something?« »i think i shall take off my things ... if you don't mind? i shall have to sit still so long.« her voice had a touch of mockery. but at the sight of his unsuspecting glance, and hearing his simple.... »certainly, please do« ... she explained quite simply and seriously: »my corset is so tight. i shall take it off, too ... if i may.« »certainly, you may.« he turned away, blushing. but, either because insomnia had so addled his thoughts, or because all his life he had been so innocent, his »you may« sounded quite natural to him ... in a house where all things were allowed and nobody ever thought of asking anybody's leave about anything. he heard a rustling of silk and the unbuttoning of a dress,--then a question: »you are not an author?« »what ... an author? no, i am not an author. er ... do you like authors?« »no, i do not.« »why? they are men....« he yawned--a long satisfying yawn. »and what is your name?« silence ... and then: »my name is ... n--no! peter.« »and what are you? what do you do?« the girl questioned him gently, but watchfully, and in a firm tone. the impression conveyed by her voice might have been that she was moving towards the bed. but he by now had ceased to hear her; he was already sleeping. for one moment an expiring thought had flickered in a single picture, in which time and space melted into a motley of shadows, gloom and light, motion and repose, a single picture of crowds and endless streets and a ceaseless turning of wheels depicted the whole of those two days and nights of frenzied chase. and in an instant all of this was stilled, dimmed, and had passed away, and then in the soft half-light, in the deep shadow, he had an image of one of the picture galleries where, the day before, for two hours, he had eluded his pursuers. he seemed to be sitting on a red velvet divan, which was extraordinarily soft, and staring fixedly at a huge black picture; and such a restfulness proceeded from that old black cracked canvas, his eyes were so much rested, his thoughts reposing so gently, that for some moments, even in his sleep, he began fighting sleep, confusedly afraid of it, as though of an unknown disquietude. but the music in the hall played on, the frequent little notes with bare heads hairless jostled up and down, and the thought came: »now i can sleep.« and all at once he fell into a deep slumber. triumphantly, eagerly, gentle glossy sleep soothed and embraced him and in profound silence masking their breathing they went their way into a pellucid melting sea. thus he slept on--one hour and then another--on his back in the polite posture he had assumed awake, his right hand in his pocket holding the key and his revolver; the girl, neck and arms bare sitting opposite, smoking, sipping cognac, gazing on him. now and then, to get a better view, she craned her rather thin, flexible neck, and, when she moved, her lips curled with two deep creases of constraint. she had not thought to turn out the hanging lamp, and under the strong light he was neither young nor old nor strange nor intimate, but some unknown being--the cheeks unknown, the nose ending in a bird's beak of shape unknown, the breathing, so even and powerful and strong, unknown. his thick hair was cut short in military fashion, and she noticed on the left temple, near the eye, a little whitened scar from some former wound. there was no cross strung round his neck. the music in the hall died down or started afresh--piano and violin and songs and the pit-a-pat of dancing feet; but she sat on, smoking cigarettes and observing the sleeper. she stretched her neck inquisitively to look at his left hand which was lying on his breast --a very broad palm and strong restful fingers; it seemed to weigh heavily on him, to hurt, so with a careful movement she lifted it and let it down gently at the side of the big body on the bed. then rose swiftly and noisily, and, as though she wanted to smash the switch, roughly turned out the upper lamp, lighting the lower one under the red hood. but even then he did not stir. his face in the pink light remained as unknown, as terrifying as before, in its immobility and repose. she turned aside, clasped her knees with her arms, now softly reddening, threw her head back and stared motionless at the ceiling from the dusky hollows of her unblinking eyes. and in her teeth, tightly pressed, there hung a cigarette, half smoked, cold, dead. * * * * * something had happened, something unexpected and terrible, something considerable and of consequence, whilst he was sleeping--this much he understood at a flash, even before he was properly awake, at the first sound of a harsh, unknown voice. he took it in with that sharpened sense of danger which to him and his comrades had developed almost into a new special sense. he was up quickly and sat with his hand pressing his revolver hard, his eyes searchingly and sharply exploring the mist of the room. and when he saw her, in the same attitude, with her shoulders of that transparent rosy hue, and her bared breast, and those eyes so enigmatically dark and unswerving, he thought to himself: »she has betrayed me!« then he looked again more steadily, sighed deeply, and corrected himself: »she hasn't yet, but she will.« how miserable it all was! he drew a deep breath and asked curtly: »well, what is it?« she said nothing. she smiled triumphantly and spitefully, looked at him and was silent,--as though she already accounted him her own, and without haste or hurry wanted to gloat over her power. »what did you say just now?« he repeated, with a frown. »what i said? i said, get up!--that's what i said. get up! you 've been asleep. it's time to play the game. this isn't a doss-house, my dear!« »tum on the light,« he commanded. »i will not.« he turned it on himself, and under the white light he saw her eyes infinitely wicked and black and painted, and her mouth compressed with hatred and disdain. and he saw the naked arms, and all of her, alien, decisive, ready to do something irrevocable. he saw the prostitute--a creature repellant to him. »what's the matter with you? are you drunk?« he asked, seriously disquieted, and put out a hand to take his high starched collar. but, anticipating his movement, she snatched at the collar, and without looking hurled it somewhere, anywhere, into the room, behind the chest of drawers, into a corner. »i won't give it to you!« »what are you after now?« he asked calmly enough, but gripping her arm with a hard firm pressure all round like an iron ring, so that the fingers of her thin hand drooped powerlessly. »let go! you're hurting me!« she cried, and he held her more gently, but did not release his hold. »you--look for it!« »what is it, my dear? are you going to shoot me? isn't that a revolver you have in your pocket? well, shoot, shoot! i'll see how you shoot me! or would you like to tell me why you take a woman and then go to sleep by yourself and tell her to drink--'drink, and i'll go to sleep!' with his hair cut and clean shaven, so that he thinks nobody will know him! do you want to go to the police, my dear? to the police, eh?« she laughed, loud and merrily--and in a way that really frightened him, there was such a savage, despairing joy on her face, as though she had gone mad. and then the idea that all was going to be lost in such a ludicrous fashion, that he would have to commit this silly, cruel, and senseless murder, and yet himself probably perish in vain, struck him with even greater horror. deadly pale, but externally calm and with the same resolute air, he looked at her, followed her every movement and word, collecting his thoughts. »well? silent now? lost your tongue?« he could seize this snaky neck and crush it and she would never be able to utter a shriek. he could do it without compunction; actually, while he held her so firmly, she had been twisting herself about like a snake. »so you know, liuba, what i am?« »i do. you«--she enunciated the words syllable by syllable, harshly and with an air of triumph--»you are a revolutionary! that's what you are!« »how do you know?« she smiled mockingly. »we aren't quite in the backwoods here.« »well, suppose we admit that i....« »pooh, suppose we admit! let go of my arm! you're all alike, you men, always ready to use your strength against a woman. let go!« he released her arm and sat down, looking at her with a heavy and obstinate wonder. something was moving about his cheekbones, a little ball of muscle, with a disturbed motion; but his expression was tranquil, serious, somewhat melancholy. and this made him again seem strange and unknown to her--and also very handsome. »well, will you know me again?« she exclaimed, and surprised herself by adding a coarse reproof. he raised his brows in surprise and spoke to her calmly, but without averting his eyes, dully, remotely, as from a great distance. »listen, liuba, certainly you can betray me, not only you, but anyone in this house, or in the street. one shout--halt! arrest him!--and men will come in their tens and hundreds and try to get me--or kill me. and for what reason? merely because i have done no harm, merely because i have devoted all my life to these very people. do you understand what it means, to sacrifice one's life?« »no, i do not,« the girl retorted harshly, but listening attentively. »some do it out of stupidity, some for spite. because, liuba, a common man cannot endure a fine man, and the wicked do not love the good....« »what should they love them for?« »don't think, liuba, that i am simply praising myself. but just look what my life has been, what it is! from the age of fourteen i have been rubbing along in prisons, expelled from school, expelled from home. my parents drove me out. once i was nearly shot dead, saved only by a miracle. try to picture it--all one's life passed in this way, all for the sake of others, and for oneself, nothing--yes, nothing!« »and what induced you to be so ... fine?« she asked jeeringly. but he replied seriously: »i don't know. i must have been born so.« »and i was born such a common sort of thing! and yet i came into the world the same way you did, didn't i?« but he was not listening. all his mind was held by the vision of his own past, so unexpectedly, so simply heroic, called up by his own words. »yes ... think of it ... i'm 26 years old and there are already grey hairs on my head, and yet until today ...« he hesitated a moment and went on firmly, proudly. »up to now i have never known a woman.... never ... do you understand? you are the first i even see ... like that. and to tell the truth, i am just a little ashamed to be looking at your bare arms.« the music rose again wildly, and the floor vibrated with the rhythm of dancing feet, broken by a drunken man's wild whoop, as though he were heading off a herd of stampeding horses. but in the room it was still, and the tobacco smoke rose serenely and melted into a ruddy mist. »that is what my life has been, liuba!« he looked down, thoughtfully and sternly, overcome by the thought of a life so pure, so painfully beautiful. and she made no reply. then she got up and threw a wrap around her bare shoulders. but at the sight of his look of astonishment, almost gratitude, she smiled and brusquely threw the wrap off, and so arranged her chemise that one breast, rosy and soft, was left bared. he turned away and slightly shrugged his shoulders. »take a drink!« she said. »no, i never drink anything.« »what, never drink! but you see, i do!« »if you've got some cigarettes, i'll have one.« »they're very common ones.« »i don't care.« and when he took the cigarette he noticed with pleasure that liuba had put her chemise straight, and the hope that everything might yet go smoothly rose again. he was a poor smoker; he did not inhale, and womanlike held the cigarette between two straight fingers. »you don't even know how to smoke!« the girl exclaimed angrily, and roughly tried to snatch the cigarette from him. »throw it away!« »now, there you are,--angry with me again!« »yes, i am!« »but why, liuba? just think! for two nights i haven't had any sleep, running about the town from pillar to post. and now, you're going to give me up and they'll have me in jail! that's a fine finish, isn't it? but, liuba, i'll never give in alive....« he stopped short. »will you shoot?« »yes, i shall shoot.« the music had ceased for a time, but the wild drunken man was still halloing although apparently someone, as a joke or in earnest, had a hand on his mouth, the sounds coming through the compressed fingers even more desperately and savagely. the room reeked no longer with cheap fragrant soap, but with a thick, moist and repulsive odour; on one wall, uncovered, there hung messily and flat some petticoats and blouses. it was all so repugnant, so strange, to think that this also was life,--that people were living such a life day in, day out,--that he felt dazed and shrugged his shoulders and again looked round slowly. »what a place this is!« he said, bemused and resting his eyes on liuba. »what of it?« she asked curtly. he looked at her as she stood there, and suddenly understood that she was to be pitied; and as soon as he had grasped this he did pity her--ardently. »you are poor, liuba?« »well?« »give me your hand.« and, as though to assert in some way his relation to the girl as a human being, he took her hand and respectfully raised it to his lips. »you mean that ... for me?« »yes, liuba, for you.« then quite quietly, as though thanking him, she said: »off you go! get out of here, you block-head!« he did not understand at once. »what?« »off with you. get out of here! get out!« silently, with a steady step, she crossed the room, picked up the white collar in the corner, and threw it to him with an expression of disgust, as though it had been the dirtiest, filthiest rag. and he, likewise silent, but with an expression of high resolve, without sparing even one glance at the girl, began quietly and slowly buttoning on the collar; but all in a moment, with a savage whine, liuba struck him on his shaven cheek, with all her strength. the collar fell on the floor; he was shaken from his balance, but steadied himself. pale, almost blue, but still silent, with the same look of lofty composure and proud incomprehension, he faced her with a stolid, unswerving stare. she was drawing rapid breaths, and staring at him in terror. »well?« she gasped. he looked at her, still silent. then, maddened beyond endurance by his haughty unresponsiveness, terror-stricken by the stone wall against which she seemed to have flung herself, the girl lost all control of herself and seizing him by the shoulders forcibly thrust him down upon the bed. she bent over him, her face near his, and eye to eye. »well? why don't you answer? what are you trying to do with me? you scoundrel--that's what you are! kiss my hand, will you? come here to boast of yourself, will you? to show off your beauty! what are you trying to do with me? do you think i'm so happy?« she shook him by the shoulders, and her thin fingers, unconsciously curling and uncurling like a cat's claws, scratched his body through his shirt. »and he's never known a woman, hasn't he? you brute, you dare come here and brag about this to me--to me for whom any man is simply.... where's your decency? what do you think you're doing with me? »i'll never give in alive.« that's the tune is it? but i--of course, i'm already dead. you understand, you rascal? i'm dead! but i spit in your face ... ph!... in the face of the living! there! get out, you brute! get out of here!« with anger he could no longer command, he threw her off him and she fell backwards against the wall. apparently his mind was still confused, for his next movement, equally rapid and decisive, was to seize his revolver and look at its grinning, toothless mouth. but the girl never so much as saw his bespattered face, damp and disfigured with demoniac rage, nor the black revolver. she covered her eyes with her hands, as though to crush them into the farthest recesses of her brain, stepped forward swiftly and steadily, and flung herself on the bed, face down, in a fit of silent sobbing. everything had turned out different from what he had anticipated. out of vapidity and nonsense there had crept forth a chaos--savage, drunken, and hysterical, with a crumpled, distorted face. he shrugged his shoulders, put away the useless revolver, and began pacing the room, up and down. the girl was crying. to and fro again. the girl was crying. he stopped beside her, his hands in his pockets, to look at her. there, under his eyes, face down, lay a woman sobbing frantically in an agony of unbearable sorrow, sobbing as one who looks suddenly back on a wasted life or a better life irretrievably lost. her naked, finely tapering shoulder blades were heaving as though to heap fuel on the raging furnace within, and sinking as though to compress the tense anguish in her bosom. the music had started afresh; a mazurka now. and the jingle of spurs could be heard. some officers must have come. such tears he had never seen! he was disconcerted. he took his hands out of his pockets, and said gently: »liuba!« still she sobbed. »liuba! what is the matter, liuba?« she answered, but so faintly that he could not hear. he sat by her on the bed, bent his shorn head, and laid a hand on her shoulders; and his hand responded with a quiver to the trembling of those pitiable shoulders. »i can't hear what you say, liuba?« then something distant, dull, soaked in tears: »wait--before you go ... over there ... some officers have arrived. they might see you ... my god--to think...!« she sat up quickly on the bed, clasping her hands, eyes wide open staring into space in sudden fear. the terror lasted a moment, and then she again lay down and wept. outside the spurs were jingling rhythmically, and the pianist with revived energy was conscientiously beating out a vigorous mazurka. »take a drink of water, liuba, do i you really must ... please ...« he whispered as he bent over her. her ear was covered with her hair, and fearing that she could not hear, he carefully brushed aside those dark curling locks, and discovered a hot little red shell of an ear. »please drink! i beg you!« »no, i don't want a drink. there's no need.... it's all over.« she had quieted down by now. the sobbing stopped; one more long throe, and the shuddering shoulders were pathetically still; he was gently stroking her neck down to the lace of the chemise. »are you better, liuba?« she said nothing, but heaved a long sigh and turned round, quickly glancing at him. then she relaxed and sat up, looked up at him again, and rubbed his face and eyes with the plaits of her hair. she breathed another long sigh and quite gently and simply laid her head on his shoulder, and he as simply put an arm round her and drew her silently closer to him. his fingers touched her naked shoulder, but this no longer disturbed him. and thus they sat a long while without speaking, but with now and then a sigh, staring straight ahead of them into space with unseeing eyes. suddenly there was a sound of voices and steps in the corridor, a jingling of spurs, quite gentle and elegant, like that of young officers. the sound came nearer and halted at the door. he rose promptly. someone was knocking at the door, first tapping with knuckles and then banging with their fists, and a woman's voice called out: »liubka, open the door!« he looked at her and waited. »give me a handkerchief,« she said, without looking at him, and put her hand out. she rubbed her face hard, blew her nose noisily, threw the handkerchief on his knees, and went to the door. he watched and waited. on her way to the door she turned out the light, and it was all at once so dark that he could hear his own rather laboured breathing. and for some reason he sat down again on the creaking bed. »well? what is it? what do you want?« she asked through the door, without opening it, her voice calm, but still betraying some uneasiness. feminine voices were heard in argument and, cutting through them as scissors cut through a tangle of silk, a male voice, young, persuasive, seeming to proceed from behind strong white teeth and a soft moustache. spurs jingled as though the speaker were responding with a bow. and--strange!--liuba smiled. »no. no! i don't want to come--very well, do as you like. no, not for all your 'lovely liubas'. i won't come.« another knock at the door, laughter, a sound of scolding, more jingling of spurs, and it all moved away from the door, and died out somewhere down the corridor. in the dark, fumbling for his knee with her hand, liuba sat down by him, but did not lay her head on his shoulder. she explained briefly: »the officers are starting a dance. they are summoning everybody. they are going to have a cotillion.« »liuba,« he said, pleadingly, »please turn on the light. don't be angry.« she got up without a word and switched it on. and now she no longer sat with him but, as before, on the chair facing the bed. her face was surly, uninviting, but courteous--like that of a hostess who cannot help sitting through an uninvited and overlong visit. »you are not angry with me, liuba?« »no. why should i be?« »i wondered just now when you laughed so merrily.« she laughed without looking up. »when i feel merry, i laugh. but you can't leave just now. you'll have to wait until the officers get away. it won't be long.« »very well. i will wait, thank you, liuba.« she laughed again. »how courteous you are!« »don't you like it?« »not too well. what are you by birth?« »my father is a doctor in the military service. my grandfather was a peasant. we are old-ritualists.« liuba, surprised, looked up at him. »really? but you don't wear a cross round your neck.« »a cross!« he laughed. »we wear our cross on our backs.« the girl frowned slightly. »you want to go to sleep? you'd better lie down than waste time in this way.« »no, i won't lie down. i don't want to sleep any more.« »as you wish.« there was a long and awkward silence. liuba gazed downwards and fixed her attention on turning a ring on her finger. he looked round the room; each time be conspicuously avoided meeting the girl's glance, and rested his eyes on the unfinished glass of cognac. then, all at once, it became overwhelmingly clear to him, even palpably evident, that all this was no longer what it seemed--that little yellow glass with the cognac, the girl so absorbed in twiddling her ring--and he himself, too, he was no longer himself, but someone else, someone alien and quite apart.... just then the music stopped and there followed a quiet jingle of spurs.... he seemed to himself to have lived at some time, not in this house, but in a place very much like it; and that he had been an active and even important person to whom something was now happening. that strange feeling was so powerful that he shuddered and shook his head; and the feeling soon left him, but not altogether; there remained some faint inexpungible trace of the turbulent memories of that which had never been. and quite often, in the course of this unusual night, he caught himself at a point whence he was looking down on some object or person, trying anxiously to recall them out of the deep darkness of the past, even out of what had never existed. had he not known it for a thing impossible, he would have said that he had already been here on some occasion, so familiar and habitual had it all become. and this was unpleasant; it had already imperceptibly estranged him from himself and his comrades, and mysteriously made him a part of this institution, part of its wild and loathesome life. silence became oppressive. »why aren't you drinking?« he asked. she shivered. »what?« »you haven't finished your glass, liuba. why don't you?« »i don't want to by myself.« »i'm sorry, but i don't drink.« »and i don't drink by myself.« »i would rather eat a pear.« »pray do so. they are here for that purposes.« »wouldn't you like a pear?« the girl did not answer, but turned aside and caught his glance resting on her naked and translucently rosy shoulders, and flung a grey knitted shawl over them. »it's rather cold,« she said abruptly. »yes, a little cold,« he agreed, although it was very warm in that little room. and again there was a long and tense silence. from the hall could be heard the catchy rhythm of a noisy _ritornello_. »they are dancing,« he said. »they are dancing,« she replied. »what was it made you so angry with me, that you struck me, liuba?« the girl hesitated and then answered sharply. »there was nothing else for it so i struck you. i didn't kill you, so why make a fuss about it?« her smile was ugly. there was nothing else for it? she was looking straight at him with her dark rounded eyes, with a pallid and determined smile. nothing else for it? he noticed a little dimple in her chin. it was hard to believe that this same head, this evil pallid head, had been lying on his shoulder a minute or two ago, that he had been caressing her! »so that's the reason,« he said gloomily. he paced to and fro in the room once or twice, but not toward the girl; and when he sat down again in the same place his face wore a strangely sullen and rather haughty expression. he said nothing, but, raising his eyebrows, stared at the ceiling where there played a spot of light with red edges. something was crawling across it, something small and black, probably a belated autumn fly, revived by the heat. it had been brought to life in the night, and certainly understood nothing and would soon die. he sighed. but now she laughed aloud. »what is there to make you merry?« he looked up coldly and turned aside. »i suppose--you are very much like the author. you don't mind? he too at first pities me, and then gets angry, because i do not adore him as though he were an icon. he's so touchy. if he were god, he'd never forgive even one candle,« she smiled. »but how do you know any authors? you don't read anything.« »there is one ...« she said curtly. he pondered, fixing on the girl his unswerving gaze, too calm in its scrutiny. living in a turmoil himself, he began vaguely to recognize in the girl a rebellious spirit; and this agitated him and made him try to puzzle out why it was that her wrath had fallen on him. the fact that she had dealings with authors, and probably talked with them, that she could sometimes assume such an air of quiet dignity and yet could speak with such malice--all this gave her interest and endowed her blow with the character of something more earnest and serious than the mere hysterical outburst of a half-drunk, half-naked prostitute. at first he had been only indignant, not offended; but now, in this interval of reflection, he was gradually becoming affronted, and this not only intellectually. »why did you hit me, liuba? when you strike anyone in the face, you should tell them why.« he repeated his question sullenly and persistently. obstinacy and stony hardness were expressed in his prominent cheekbones and the heavy brow that overshadowed his eyes. »i don't know,« she replied with the same obduracy, but avoiding his gaze. she did not wish to answer him. he shrugged his shoulders, and again went on, pertinaciously staring at the girl and weaving his fancies. his thought, usually sluggish, once aroused worked forcibly and could not be deterred--worked almost mechanically, turning into something like a hydraulic press which slowly sinking powders up stones and bends iron beams and crushes anyone that falls beneath it--slowly, indifferently, irresistibly. turning neither to the left nor to the right, unmoved by sophisms, evasions, allusions, his thought would push forward clumsily and heavily until it ground itself down or reached the logical extreme beyond which lay the void and mystery. he did not dissociate his thought from himself; he thought integrally, with the whole of his body; and each logical deduction forthwith became real to him--as happens only with very healthy or direct persons who have not yet turned thought into a pastime. and now, alarmed, driven out of his course, like a heavy locomotive that has slipped its rails on a pitch dark night and by some miracle continues leaping over hillocks and knolls, he was seeking a road and could not anyhow find it. the girl was still silent and evidently did not wish to talk. »liuba, let us have a quiet talk. we must try to....« »i don't want to have a quiet talk.« then again: »listen, liuba. you hit me, and i cannot let matters rest at that.« the girl smiled. »no? what will you do with me? go to the police-court?« »no, but i shall keep coming to you until you explain.« »you will be welcome. madame gets her profit.« »i shall come tomorrow. i shall come....« and then, suddenly, almost simultaneously with the thought that neither tomorrow nor the day after would he be able to come, there flashed upon him the surmise, almost certainty, why the girl had struck him. his face cleared. »oh, that's it then! that's why you struck me--because i pitied you? i offended you with my compassion? yes, it is very stupid ... but really, i didn't mean to--though of course it hurts. after all, you are human, just as i am....« »just as you are?« she smiled. »well, let that pass. give me your hand. let's be friends.« she turned pale. »you want me to smack your face again?« »give me your hand--as friends--as friends,« he repeated sincerely, but for some reason in a low voice. but liuba got up, and moving a little distance away said: »do you know ... either you are a fool or you have been very little beaten!« she looked at him and laughed aloud. »my god, yes! my author! a most perfect author! how could one help hitting you, my dear?« she apparently chose the word author purposely, and with some special and definite meaning. and then, with supreme disdain, taking no more account of him than of a chattel or hopeless imbecile or drunkard, she walked freely up and down, and jeered: »or was it that i hit you too hard? what are you whining about?« he made no reply. »my author says that i'm a hard fighter. perhaps he has a finer face. however hard one smacks your cheeks you seem to feel nothing! oh, i've knocked lots of people's mouths about, but i've never been so sorry for anyone as for my author. 'hit away', he says, 'i deserve it.' a drunken slobberer! it's disgusting hitting him. he's a brute. but i hurt my hand on your face. here--kiss it where it smarts!« she thrust her hand to his lips and withdrew it swiftly. her excitement was increasing. for some minutes it seemed as though she were choking in a fever; she rubbed her breast, breathing deeply through her open mouth, and unconsciously gripped the window curtains. and twice she stopped as she went to and fro to pour out a glass of cognac. the second time he remarked in a surly tone. »you said you didn't drink alone.« »i have no consistency, my dear,« she replied, quite simply. »i'm drugged, and unless i drink at intervals i stifle ... this revives me.« then all at once, as if she had only just noticed him, she raised her eyes in surprise, and laughed. »ah! there you are--still there! not gone yet! sit down, sit down!« with a savage light in her eyes, she threw off the knitted wrap, again baring her rosy shoulders and thin soft arms. »why am i all wrapped up like this? it's hot here and i ... i must have been saving him! how kind!... look here, you might at least take your trousers off. it's only good manners here to do without your trousers. if your drawers are dirty i'll give you mine. oh, never mind the slit. here, put them on. now, my dear boy, you must, you'll have to....« she laughed until she choked, begging and putting out her hands. then she knelt down, clasping his hands, and implored him:-»now, my darling, do! and i'll kiss your hand!« he moved away, and, with an air of sullen grief, said: »what are you trying to do with me, liuba? what have i done to you? my relations with you are quite proper. i'm being perfectly decent to you. what are you doing? what is it? have i offended you? if i have, forgive me. you know, i am ... i don't know about these things.« with a contemptuous shrug of her naked shoulders, liuba rose from her knees and sat down, breathing heavily. »you mean you won't put them on.« »i'm sorry, but i should look....« he began saying something, hesitated and continued irresolutely, drawling his words. »listen, liuba.... it's quite true! ... it's all such nonsense! but, if you wish it, then we can put out the light? yes, put out the light, please, liuba.« »what?« the girl's eyes opened wide in bewilderment. »i mean,« he continued hurriedly, »that you are a woman and i am ... certainly i was in the wrong.... don't think it was compassion, liuba. no, really it wasn't. really not, liuba. i ... but turn out the light, liuba.« with an agitated smile he put out his hands to her in the clumsy caressing way of a man who has never had to do with women. and this is what he saw: she clenched her fists with a slow effort and raised them to her chin and became, as it were, one immense gasp contained in her swelling bosom, her eyes huge and staring with horror and anguish and inexpressible contempt. »what is the matter, liuba?« he asked, shattered. and with a cold horror, without unclasping her fingers, almost inaudibly she exclaimed: »oh, you brute! my god, what a brute you are!« crimson with the shame of the reproof, and outraged in that he had himself committed outrage, he stamped furiously on the floor and hurled abuse in rough curt words at those wide staring eyes with their unfathomable terror and pain. »you prostitute, you! you refuse! silence! silence!« but she still quietly shook her head and repeated: »my god! my god! what a brute you are.« »silence, you slut! you're drunk. you've gone mad! do you think i need your filthy body? do you think it's for such as you that i've kept myself? sluts like you ought to be flogged!« and he lifted his hand as though to box her ears, but did not touch her. »my god! my god!« »and they even pity you! you ought to be extirpated, all this abomination and vice! those who go with you, too--all that rabble! and you dare to think me anything of that sort!« he roughly took her by the hand and flung her on the chair. »oh, you fine man! fine? fine, are you?« she laughed in a transport of delight. »fine? yes. all my life! honourable! pure! but you? what are you, you harlot, you miserable beast?« »a fine man!« the delight of it was intoxicating her. »yes, fine. after tomorrow i shall be going to my death, for mankind, for you ... and you? you'll be sleeping with my executioners. call your officers in here! i'll fling you at their feet and tell them, 'take your carrion!' call them in!« liuba slowly rose to her feet, and when, in a tempest of emotion, with proud distended nostrils, he looked at her, he was met by a look as proud and even more disdainful. even pity shone in the arrogant eyes of the prostitute; she had mounted miraculously a step of the invisible throne and thence, with a cold and stern attention, gazed down on something at her feet--something petty, clamorous, pitiable. she no longer smiled; there was no trace of excitement; her eyes involuntarily seemed to look for the little step on which she was standing, so conscious was she of the new height from which she looked down on all things beneath her. »what are you?« he repeated, without moving away, as vehement as ever, but already subdued by that calm, haughty gaze. then, with an ominous air of conviction, behind which lay a vista of millions of crushed lives and oceans of bitter tears and the unchecked fiery course of rebellion's cry for justice, she asked sternly: »what right have you to be fine when i am so common?« »what?« he did not understand at once, but instantly felt a dread of the gulf that yawned in all its blackness at his very feet. »i have been waiting for you for a long time.« »you--waiting for me?« »yes, i have been waiting for a fine man. for five years i have been waiting--perhaps longer. all those who came admitted they were brutes--and brutes they were. my author first said he was fine, but then admitted he was a brute, too. i don't want that sort.« »what, then--what do you want?« »i want you, my darling,--you. yes, just such as you.« she scrutinized him carefully and quietly from head to foot and affirmatively nodded her head. »yes--thank you for coming.« then he who feared nothing, trembled. »what do you want with me?« he asked, stepping back. »it had to be a fine man, my dear, a really fine man. those other drivellers--its no good striking them--you only dirty your hands. but now that i have struck you--why, i can kiss my own hand! little hand, you have hit a fine man!« she smiled, and did in fact three times stroke and kiss her right hand. he looked at her wildly, and his usually deliberate thoughts coursed with the speed of desperation. there was approaching, like a black cloud, a thing, terrible and irreparable as death. »what--what did you say?« »i said it's shameful to be fine. didn't you know that?« »i never--« he muttered, and sat down, deeply confused and no longer fully conscious of her. »then learn it now.« she spoke calmly, and only the swelling of her half-bared bosom betrayed how profound the emotion was that lay suppressed behind that myriad cry. »do you realise it now?« »what?« he was recovering himself. »do you realise it, i say?« »have patience!« »i am patient, my dear. i have waited five years. why shouldn't i be patient for another five minutes?« she sat back comfortably on the chair, as though in anticipation of a rare pleasure, and crossed her naked arms and closed her eyes. »you say it's shameful to be fine?« »yes, my pet, shameful.« »but--what you say is....« he stopped short in terror. » ... is so! are you afraid? never mind, never mind--it's only at first that it's frightening.« »but afterwards?« »you are going to stay with me and learn what comes afterwards.« he did not understand. »how can i stay?« the girl, in her turn, was startled. »can you go anywhere now, after this? look, dear, don't be deceitful. you're not a scoundrel like the others. you are really fine, and you will stay. it wasn't for nothing i waited for you.« »you've gone mad!« he exclaimed sharply. she looked up at him sternly, and even threatened him with her finger. »that's not fine. don't speak like that. when a truth comes to you, bow down humbly before it and do not say: 'you have gone mad.' that's what my author says, 'you've gone mad!' but you be honourable!« »and what if i don't stay?« he asked with a wan smile, his lips distorted and pale. »you will,« she said with conviction. »where can you go now? you have nowhere to go. you are honourable. i saw it the moment you kissed my hand. a fool, i thought, but honourable. you are not offended that i mistook you for a fool? it was your own fault. well--why did you offer me your innocence? you thought: i will give her my innocence and she will renounce it. oh, you fool! you fool! at first i was even offended. why, i thought, he doesn't even consider me a human being! and then i saw that this, too, came from this fineness of yours. and this was your calculation: i pay her my innocence, and in return i shall be even purer than before and receive it back like a new shilling that hasn't been in circulation. i give it to the beggar and it will come back to me.... no, my dear, that game is not coming off!« »n--not coming off?« »n--no, dear,« she drawled, »for i am not a fool. i've seen enough of these tradespeople. they pile up millions and then give a pound to a church and imagine they have righted themselves. no, dear, you must build me an entire church. you must give me the most precious thing you have, your innocence. perhaps you are only giving up your innocence because it has become useless to you, because it has tarnished. are you getting married?« »no.« »supposing you had a bride awaiting you tomorrow with flowers and embraces and love, then would you give away your innocence, or not?« »i don't know,« he said reflectively. »this is what i mean. i should have said: take my life, but leave me my honour. you would give away the cheaper of the two. but, no--you must give me the dearest thing of all, the thing without which you cannot live--that and nothing else!« »but why should i give it away? why?« »why? only that it may not be shameful to you.« »but, liuba!« he exclaimed in bewilderment. »listen! you yourself are....« »fine, you were going to say? i've heard that too from my author, more than once. but, my dear, that is not the truth. i'm just an ordinary girl, and you will stay and then you will know it.« »i will not stay,« he cried aloud, between his teeth. »don't shriek, my dear. shrieks avail nothing against the truth--i know that for myself.« and then in a whisper, looking straight in his eyes, she added: »for god, too, is fine!« »well, and then?« »there's no more to be said. think it out for yourself, and i'll stop talking. it's only five years since i went to church. that's the truth.« truth? what truth? what was this unexplored terror, that he had never met before either in the face of death or in life itself? truth? square-cheeked, hard-headed, conscious only of the conflict in his soul, he sat there resting his head on his hands and slowly turning his eyes as though from one extreme of life to the other. and life was collapsing--as a badly glued chest, rained upon in the autumn, falls into unrecognisable fragments of what had been so beautiful. he remembered the good fellows with whom he had lived his life and worked in a marvellous union of joy and sorrow--and they seemed strange to him and their life incomprehensible and their work senseless. it was as though someone with mighty fingers had taken hold of his soul and snapped it in two, as one snaps a stick across one's knee, and flung the fragments far apart. it was only a few hours since he left _there_--and all his life seemed to have been spent _here_, in front of this half-naked woman, listening to the distant music and the jingling of spurs; and that it would always be so. and he did not know which side to turn, up or down, but only that he was opposed, tormentingly opposed, to all that had that day become part of his very life and soul. shameful to be fine.... he recalled the books which had taught him how to live, and he smiled bitterly. books! there before him was one book, sitting with bare shoulders, closed eyes, an expression of beatitude on a pale distracted face, waiting patiently to be read to the end. shameful to be fine.... and, all at once, with unbearable pain, grief-stricken, affrighted, he realized once and for all that that life was done with, that it had already become impossible for him to be fine! he had only lived in that he was fine, it had been his only joy, and his only weapon in the battle of life and death. all this was gone. nothing was left. the dark! whether he stayed there or returned to his own people ... now, for him, his comrades were no more. why had he come to this accursed house! better had he remained on the street, surrendered to the police, gone to prison where it was possible and even not disgraceful to be fine. and now it was too late even for prison. »are you crying?« the girl asked, perturbed. »no,« he answered curtly. »i never cry.« »and no need, dearie; we women can weep; you needn't. if you wept, too, who would there be to give an answer to god?« she was his? this woman was his? »liuba,« he cried in anguish, »what can i do? what can i do?« »stay with me. you can stay with me, for now you are mine.« »and they?« the girl frowned. »what sort of people are they?« »men! men!« he exclaimed in a frenzy. »men with whom i used to work. it was _not_ for myself--no, _not_ for self-satisfaction that i bore all this, that i was getting ready to carry out this assassination!« »don't talk to me about those people,« she said sternly, though her lips trembled. »don't mention them to me or i shall quarrel with you again. you hear me?« »but what are you?« he asked amazed. »i?--perhaps a cur! and all of us curs! but dearie, be careful! you've been able to take shelter behind us, and so be it. but do not try to hide from truth; you will never elude her. if you must love mankind, then pity our sorry brotherhood.« she was sitting with her hands clasped behind her head, in an attitude of blissful repose, foolishly happy, almost beside herself. she moved her head from side to side, her eyes half closed in a daydream, spoke slowly, almost chanting her words. »my own! my love! we will drink together! we will weep together. oh, how delightful it will be to weep with you, dear one. i would so weep all my life. he has stayed with me. he has not gone away. when i saw him today, in the glass, it burst upon me at once: this is he!--my betrothed!--my darling! and i do not know who you are, brother or bridegroom of mine. but oh, so closely kin, so much desired....« he, too, remembered that black dumb pair in the gilded mirror,--and the passing thought: as at a funeral. and all at once the whole thing became so intolerably painful, seemed so wild a nightmare, that he ground his teeth in his grief. his thoughts travelled farther back; he remembered his treasured revolver in his pocket, the two days of constant flight, the plain door that had no handle, and how he looked for a bell, and how a fat lackey who had not yet got his coat on straight had come out in a dirty printed linen shirt, and how he had entered with the proprietress into that white hall and seen those three strange girls. and with it all a feeling of growing freedom came over him and at last he grasped that he was, as he had ever been, free--absolutely free--that he could go wherever he liked. sternly now he surveyed that strange room, severely, with the conviction of a man aroused for an instant from a debauch, seeing himself in foreign surroundings and condemning what he sees. »what is all this? how idiotic! what a senseless nightmare!« but--the music was still playing on. but--the woman was still sitting with her hands clasped behind her head, smiling, unable to speak, almost fainting under the load of a happiness beyond sense and experience. but--this was not a dream! »what is all this? is this--truth?« »truth, my darling! you and i inseparable!« this was truth? truth--those crumpled petticoats hanging on the wall in their bare disorder? truth--that carpet on which thousands of drunken men had scuffled in spasms of hideous passion? truth--this stale, moist fragrance, loathesomely cleaving to the face? truth--that music and the jingling spurs? truth--that woman with her pale and harassed face and smile of pitiful bliss? again he rested his heavy head on his hands, looking askance with the eyes of a wolf at bay; and his thoughts ran on without connection. so she was truth!... that meant that tomorrow and the day after he would not go, and everyone would know why he had not gone, that he had stayed with a girl, drinking; and they would call him traitor and coward and rascal. some would intercede for him--would guess ... no, better not count on that, better see it all as it was! all over then? was this the end? into the dark--thus--into the dark? and what lay beyond? he did not know. in the dark? probably some new horror. but then as yet he did not understand their ways. how strange that one had to learn to be common! and from whom? from her? no, she was no use. she didn't know anything. he would find out for himself. one had to become really common oneself in order to.... yes, he would wreck something that was great! and then? and then, some day he would come back to her, or where they were drinking, or into a prison, and he would say: »now i am not ashamed, now i am not guilty in any respect in your eyes. now i am one like you, besmirched, fallen, unhappy!« or he would go into the open street and say: »look at me, what i am! i had everything--intellect, honour, dignity--stranger still, immortality. and all this i flung at the feet of a whore. i renounced it all because she was common!« what would they say? they would gape, and be astounded, and say, »what a fool!« yes--yes, a fool! was he guilty because he was fine? let her--let everyone--try to be fine! »sell all thou hast and give to the poor.« but that was just what he had done, all that he had. but this was christ--in whom he did not believe.... or perhaps.... »he who loses his soul«--not his life, but his soul.... that was what he was contemplating. perhaps ... did christ himself sin with the sinners, commit adultery, get drunk? no, he only forgave those who did, and even loved them. well, so did he love and forgive and pity her. then, why sacrifice himself? for she was not of the faith. nor he. nor was this christ; but something else, something more dreadful. »oh, this is dreadful, liuba!« »dreadful, darling? yes, it is dreadful to see truth.« truth--again she named it! but what made it dreadful? why should he dread what he so desired? no--no--there was nothing to fear. there, in the open, in front of all those gaping mouths, would he not be the highest of them all? though naked and dirty and ragged--and his face would be horrible then--he who had lost abandoned himself, would he not be the terrible proclaimer of justice eternal, to which god himself must submit--otherwise he were not god? »there is nothing dreadful about it, liuba.« »yes, darling, there is. you are not afraid, and that is well. but do not provoke it. there is no need to do that.« »so that is it--that is my end! it is not what i expected--not what i expected for the end of my young and beautiful life. my god, but this is senseless! i must have gone mad! still it is not too late ... not too late ... i can still escape.« »my darling,« the woman was murmuring, her hands still clasped behind her head. he glanced at her and frowned. her eyes were blissfully closed; a happy, unthinking smile upon her lips expressed an unquenchable thirst, an insatiable hunger, as though she had just tasted something and was preparing for more. he looked down on her and frowned--on her thin soft arms, on the dark hollows of her armpits; and he got up without any haste. with a last effort to save something precious--life or reason, or the good old truth--without any flurry, but solemnly, he began dressing himself. he could not find his collar. »tell me, have you seen my collar?« »where are you going?« the woman looked round. her hands fell away from her head, and the whole of her strained forward towards him. »i am going away.« »you are going away?« she repeated, dragging the words. »you are going? where?« he smiled derisively. »as if i had nowhere to go! i am going to my comrades.« »to the fine folk? have you cheated me?« »yes. to the fine folk.« again the same smile. he had finished dressing, he was feeling his pockets. »give me my pocket-book.« she handed it to him. »and my watch.« she gave it to him. they had been lying together on the little table. »goodbye.« »are you frightened?« the question was quiet and simple. he looked up. there stood a woman, tall and shapely, with thin, almost child-like arms, a pale smile, and blanched lips, asking: »are you frightened?« how strangely she could change! sometimes forceful and even terrible, she was now pathetic and more like a girl than a woman. but all this was of no account. he stepped toward the door. »but i thought you were going to stay....« »what?« »the key's in your pocket--for my sake.« the lock was already creaking. »very well, then! go ... go to your comrades and....« it was then, at the last moment, when he had nothing to do but to open the door and go out and seek his comrades and end a noble life with a heroic death--it was then he committed the wild, incomprehensible act that ruined his life. it may have been a frenzy that sometimes unaccountably seizes hold of the strongest and calmest minds; or it may have been actually that, through the drunken scraping of a fiddle somewhere in that bawdy house, through the sorcery of the downcast eyes of a prostitute, he discovered a last new terrible truth of life, a truth of his own, which none other could see and understand. whichever it were--insanity or revelation, lies or truth, this new understanding of his--he accepted it manfully and unconditionally, with that inflexible spirit which had drawn his previous life along one straight, fiery line, directing its flight like the feathers on an arrow. he passed his hand slowly, very slowly, over his hard, bristly skull, and, without even shutting the door, simply returned and sat in his former place on the bed. his broad cheekbones, his paleness, made him look more than ever a foreigner. »what's the matter? have you forgotten something?« the girl was astonished. she no longer expected anything. »no.« »what is it? why don't you go?« quietly, with the expression of a stone on which life has engraved one last commandment, grim and new, he answered: »i do not wish to be fine.« she still waited, not daring to believe, suddenly shrinking from what she had so much sought and yearned for. she knelt down. he smiled gently, and in the same new and impressive manner stood over her and placed his hand on her head and repeated: »i do not want to be fine.« the woman busied herself swiftly in her joy. she undressed him like a child, unlaced his boots, fumbling at the knots, stroked his head, his knees, and never so much as smiled--so full was her heart. then she looked up into his face and was afraid. »how pale you are! drink something now--at once! are you feeling ill, peter?« »my name is alexis.« »never mind that. here, let me give you some in a glass. well, take care then; don't choke yourself! if you're not used to it, it's not so easy as out of a glass.« she opened her mouth, seeing him drink with slow, sceptical gulps. he coughed. »never mind! you'll be a good drinker, i can see that! oh, how happy i am!« with an animal cry she leapt on him, and began smothering him with short, vigorous kisses, to which he had no time to respond. it was funny--she was a stranger, yet kissed so hard! he held her firmly for a moment, held her immovable, and was silent awhile, himself motionless--held her as though he too felt the strength of quiescence, the strength of a woman, as his own strength. and the woman, joyously, obediently, became limp in his arms. »so be it!« he said, with an imperceptible sigh. the woman bestirred herself anew, burning in the savagery of her joy as in a fire. her movements filled the room, as if she were not one but a score of half-witted women who spoke, stirred, went to and fro, kissed him. she plied him with cognac, and drank more herself. then a sudden recollection seized her; she clasped her hands. »but the revolver--we forgot that! give it to me--quick, quick! i must take it to the office.« »why?« »oh, i'm scared of the thing! would it go off at once?« he smiled, and repeated: »would it go off at once? yes, it would. at once!« he took out his revolver, and, deliberately weighing in his hand that silent and obedient weapon, gave it to the girl. he also handed her the cartridge clips. »take them!« when he was left alone and without the revolver he had carried so many years, the half open door letting in the sound of strange voices and the clink of spurs, he felt the whole weight of the great burden he had taken on his shoulders. he walked silently across the room in the direction where they were to be found, and said one word: »well?« a chill came over him as he crossed his arms, facing them; and that one little word held many meanings--a last farewell--some obscure challenge, some irrevocable evil resolution to fight everyone, even his own comrades--a little, a very little, sense of reproach. he was still standing there when liuba ran in, excitedly calling to him from the door. »dearie, dearie, now don't be angry. i've asked my friends here, some of them. you don't mind? you see, i want so much to show them my sweetheart, my darling; you don't mind? they're dears! nobody has taken them this evening and they're all alone. the officers have gone to bed now. one of them noticed your revolver and liked it. a very fine one, he said. you don't mind? you don't mind, dear?« and the girl smothered him with short, sharp kisses. the women were already coming in, chattering and simpering--five or six of the ugliest or oldest of the establishment--painted, with drooping eyes, their hair combed up over their brows. some of them affected attitudes of shame, and giggled; others quietly eyed the cognac, and looking at him earnestly shook hands. apparently they had already been to bed; they were all in scanty wrappers; one very fat woman, indolent and indifferent, had come in nothing but a petticoat, her bare arms and corpulent bosom incredibly fat. this fat woman, and another one with an evil bird-like aged face, on which the white paint lay like dirty stucco on a wall, were quite drunk; the others were merry. all this mob of women, half naked, giggling, surrounded him; and an intolerable stench of bodies and stale beer rose and mingled with the clammy, soapy air of the room. a sweating lackey hurried in with cognac, dressed in a tight frocks coat much too small for him, and the girls greeted him with a chorus of: »màrkusha! oh, màrkusha! dear màrkusha!« apparently it was a custom of the house to greet him with such exclamations, for even the fat drunken woman murmured lazily, »màrkusha!« they drank and clinked glasses, all talking at once about affairs of their own. the evil-looking woman with the bird-like face was irritably and noisily telling of a guest who took her for a time ... and then something had happened. there was much interchange of gutterswords and phrases, pronounced not with the indifference of men, but with a peculiar asperity, even acidity; and every object was called by its proper name. at first they paid little heed to him, and he maintained an obstinate silence, merely looking on. liuba, full of her happiness, sat quietly beside him on the bed, one arm about his neck, herself drinking little, but constantly plying him, and from time to time whispering in his ear, »darling!« he drank heavily, but it did not make him tipsy; what was happening in him was something different, something which strong alcohol often secretly effects. whilst he drank and sat there silent, the work was going on in him, vast, destructive, swift, and numbing. it was as though all he had known in his past life, all he had loved and meditated--talks with companions, books, perilous and alluring tasks--was noiselessly being burned, annihilated without a trace, and he himself not injured in the process, but rather made stronger and harder. with every glass he drank he seemed to return to some earlier self of his, to some primitive rebel ancestor, for whom rebellion was religion and religion rebellion. like a colour being washed away in boiling water, his foreign bookish wisdom was fading and was being replaced by something of his very own, wild and dark as the black earth--from whose bleak stretches, from the infinitudes of slumbrous forest and boundless plain, blew the wind that was the life-breath of this ultimate blind wisdom of his; and in this wind could be heard the tumultuous jangling of bells, and through it could be seen the blood-red dawn of great fires, and the clank of iron fetters, and the rapture of prayer, and the satanic laughter of myriad giant throats; and above his uncovered head the murky dome of the sky. thus he sat. broad cheeked, pallid, already quite at home with these miserable creatures racketing around him. and, in his soul, laid waste by the conflagration of a desolated world, there glowed and gleamed, like a white fire of incandescent steel, one thing alone--his flaming will; blind now and purposeless, it was still greedily reaching out afar, while his body, undisturbed, was secretly being steeled in the feeling of limitless power and ability to create all things or to shatter all things at will. suddenly he hammered on the table with his fist. »drink, liubka! drink!« and when, radiant and smiling, she had poured herself out a glass, he lifted his, and cried aloud. »here's to our brotherhood!« »you mean them?« whispered liuba. »no, these. to our brotherhood! to the blackguards, brutes and cowards, to those who are crushed by life, to those perishing from syphilis, to....« the other girls laughed, the fat one indolently objecting: »oh, come, that's going a bit too far, my dear!« »hush!« said liuba, turning very pale, »he is my betrothed.« »to those who are blind from birth! ye who can see, pluck out your eyes! for it is shameful«--and he banged on the table--»it is shameful for those who have sight to look upon those who are blind from birth! if with our light we cannot illumine all the darkness, then let us put out the signal fires, let us all crawl in the dark! if there be not paradise for all, then i will have none for myself! and this, girls, this is no part of paradise, but simply and plainly a piggery! a toast, girls! that all the signal fires be extinguished. drink! to the dark!« he staggered a little as he drank off his glass. he spoke rather thickly, but firmly, precisely, with pauses, enunciating every syllable. nobody understood his wild speech, but they found him pleasing in himself, his pale figure and his peculiar quality of wickedness. then liuba suddenly took up the word, stretching out her hands. »he is my betrothed. he will stay with me. he was virtuous and had comrades, and now he will stay with me!« »come and take markusha's place,« the fat woman drawled. »shut up, manka, or i'll smash your face! he will stay with me. he was virtuous....« »we were all virtuous once,« the evil old woman grumbled. and the others joined in: »i was straight four years ago ... i'm an honourable woman still ... i swear to god....« liuba was nearly weeping. »silence, you sluts! you had your honour taken from you; but he gives it me himself. he takes it and gives it for my honour. but i don't want honour! you're a lot of ... and he's still an innocent boy!« she broke into sobs. there was a general outburst of laughter. they guffawed as only the drunken can, without any restraint; the little room, saturated with sounds, and unable to absorb any more, threw it all back in a deafening roar. they laughed until the tears fell; they rolled together and groaned with it. the fat woman clucked in a little thin voice and tumbled exhausted from her chair. and, last of all, he laughed out loud at the sight of them. it was as though the satanic world itself had foregathered there to laugh to its grave that little sprig of virtue, the dead innocence itself joining in the laughter. the only one who did not laugh was liuba. trembling with agitation, she wrung her hands and shouted at them, and finally flung herself with her fists on the fat woman, who even with her beam-like arms could hardly ward off her blows. »so be it!« he shouted in his laughter. but the others could hear nothing. at last the noise died down a little. »so be it!« he cried, a second time. »but, peace! silence!--i have something to show you!« »leave them alone,« said liuba, wiping her tears away with her fist. »we must get rid of them.« still shaking with laughter he turned round to face her. »are you frightened?« he asked. »was it honour you wanted after all? you fool! it's the only thing you ever have wanted! leave me alone!« without taking any more notice of her, he addressed himself to the others, rising and holding his closed hands above his head. »listen! i'll show you something! look here, at my hands!« merry and curious, they looked at his hands, and waited obediently, like children, with gaping mouths. »here! here! see?« he shook his hands. »i hold my life in my hands! do you see?« »yes! yes! go on!« »my life was noble, it was! it was pure and beautiful. yes, it was! it was like those pretty porcelain vases. and now, look! i fling it away....« he let fall his hands, almost with a groan, and all their eyes looked downwards as though there really lay something down there, something delicate and brittle, that had been shattered into fragments--a beautiful human life. »trample on it, now, girls! trample it to pieces until not a bit of it is left!« like children enjoying a new game, with a whoop and a laugh, they leapt up and began trampling on the spot where lay the fragments of that invisible dainty porcelain, a beautiful human life. gradually a new frenzy overcame them. the laughter and shrieks died away, and nothing but their heavy breathing was audible above the continuous stamping and clatter of feet--rabid, unrelenting, implacable. liuba, like an affronted queen, watched it a moment over his shoulder with savage eyes; then suddenly, as though she had only just understood and been driven mad, with a wild groan of elation she burst into the midst of the jostling women and joined the trampling in a faster measure. but for the earnestness of the drunken faces, the ferocity of the bleary eyes, the wickedness of the depraved and twisted mouths, it might all have been taken for some new kind of dance without music, without rhythm. with his fingers gripping into his hard bristly skull, the man looked on, calm and grim. * * * * * two voices were speaking in the dark--liuba's, intimate, tentative, sensitive, with delicate intonations of private apprehension such as a woman's voice always gains in the dark, and his hard, quiet, distant. he spoke his words too precisely, too harshly--the only sign of intoxication not quite passed away. »are your eyes open?« she asked. »yes.« »are you thinking about something?« »yes.« silence--and the dark. then again the thoughtful, vigilant voice of the woman. »tell me something more about your comrades, will you?« »what for?... they--they were.« he said were as the living speak of the dead, or as the dead might speak of the living, and through the even course of his calm and almost indifferent narration it resounded like a funeral knell, as though he were an old man telling his children the heroic tale of a long departed past. and, in the darkness, before the girl's enchanted eyes, there rose the image of a little group of young men, pitifully young, bereft of father and mother, and hopelessly hostile both to the world they were fighting and to the world they were fighting for. having travelled by dream to the distant future, to the land of brotherly men as yet unborn, they lived their short lives like pale blood-stained shadows or spectres, the scarecrows of humanity. and their lives were stupidly short--the gallows awaited every one of them, or penal servitude, or insanity--nothing else to look forward to but prison, the scaffold, or the madhouse. and there were women among them.... liuba started and raised herself on her elbows. »women? what do you mean, darling?« »young, gentle girls, still in their teens. they follow in the steps of the men, manfully, daringly, die with them....« »die! oh my god!« she cried, clutching his shoulder. »what? are you touched by this?« »never mind, darling. i sometimes.... go on with your story! go on!« and he went on with his story, and there happened a wonderful thing. ice was turned into fire. through the funeral notes of hi requiem speech, suddenly rang for the girl, her eyes wide open now and burning, the gospel of a new, joyous, and mighty life. tears rose in her eyes and dried there as in a furnace; she was excited to the pitch of rebellion, eager for every word. like a hammer upon glowing iron, his words were forging in her a new responsive soul steadily, regularly, it fell--beating the soul ever to a finer temper--and suddenly, in the suffocating stench of that room, there spoke aloud a new and unknown voice, the voice of a human being. »darling, am i not also a woman?« »what do you mean?« »i also might go with them?« he did not reply, and in his silence he seemed to her so remarkable and so great (he had been their comrade, had lived with them) that it felt uncomfortable to be lying beside him, embracing him. she moved away a little and left only a hand touching him, so that the contact might be less; and forgetting her hatred of the fine, her tears and curses, and the long years of inviolable solitude in the depths--overcome by the beauty and self-denial of their lives--her face flushed with excitement, and she was ready to weep at the terrible thought that they might not accept her. »dear, but will they take me? my god, if they won't! what do you think? tell me they'll take me--they won't be squeamish! they won't say: you are impossible, you are vile, you have sold yourself! answer me!« silence--and then a reply that rejoiced. »yes, they will! why not, indeed?« »oh, my darling. but....« »fine people, they are!« the man's voice had the finality of a big fat full stop, but the girl triumphantly repeated, with a touching confidence: »yes! they are fine!« and so radiant was her smile that it seemed as if the very darkness smiled in sympathy and some little stars strayed in as well, little blue points of light. for a new truth had reached her--one that brought not fear, but joy. then the shy suppliant voice. »let us go to them, dear? you'll take me with you? you won't be ashamed of having such a companion? for they'll accept me, won't they? just as you did when you came here? surely you were driven here for some purpose! but--to stay here--you would simply drop into the cesspool. as for me, i--i--i will try. why don't you say anything?« grim silence again, in which could be heard the beating of two hearts--one rapid, hurried, excited; the other hard and slow, strongely slow. »would you be shamed to go back with such as me?« a stern prolonged silence, and then a reply, solid and inflexible as unpolished rock: »i am not going back. i don't want to be fine.« silence. then presently: »they are gentlemen,« he said, and his voice sounded solitary and strained. »who?« she asked, dully. »they--those who were.« a long silence--this time as though a bird had thrown itself down and was falling, whirling through the air on its pliant wings, but unable to reach the earth, unable to strike the ground and lie at rest. in the dark he knew that liuba, silently, carefully, making the least stir possible, passed over him; was busying herself with something. »what are you doing?« »i don't like lying there like that. i want to get dressed.« then she must have put something on and sat down; for the chair creaked ever so little; and it became so still--as silent as though the room were empty. the stillness lasted a long time; and then the calm, serious voice spoke: »i think, liuba, there is still one cognac left on the table. take a drink and come and lie down again.« * * * * * day was already dawning, and in the house all was as quiet as in any other house, when the police appeared. after long arguments and hesitations mark had been dispatched to the police station with the revolver and cartridges and a circumstantial account of the strange visitor. the police at once guessed who he was. for three days they had had him on their nerves. they had been seeing him here, there, and everywhere; but finally, all trace of him had been lost. somebody had suggested searching the brothels of the district; but just then somebody else got another false clue, so the public resorts were forgotten. the telephone tinkled excitedly. half an hour later, in the chill of the october morning, heavy boots were scrunching the hoar-frost and along the empty streets moved in silence a company of policemen and detectives. in front of them, feeling in every inch of his body what a mistake it was to take the risks of such exposure, marched the district superintendent, an elderly man, very tall, in a thick official overcoat, the shape of a sack. he was yawning, burying his flabby red nose in his grey whiskers; and he was thinking that he ought to wait for the military; that it was nonsense to go for such a man without soldiers, with nothing but stupid drowsy policemen who didn't know how to shoot. more than once he reached the point of calling himself the slave of duty, yawning every time long and heavily. the superintendent was a drunkard, a regular debauchee of the resorts of his district; and they paid him heavily for the right to exist. he had no desire to die. when they called him from his bed, he had nursed his revolver for a long time from one greasy palm to the other, and although there was little time to spare he had ordered them to clean his jacket, as though for a review. that very night at the police station, he remembered, conversation had turned on this same man who had been dodging them all, and the superintendent, with the cynicism of an old sot, had called the man a hero and himself an old police trollop. when his assistants laughed, he had assured them that such heroes must exist, if only to be hanged. »you hang him--and it pleases you both: him because he is going straight to the kingdom of heaven, and you as a demonstration that brave men still exist. don't snigger--it's true.« on that chill october morning, marching along the cold streets, he appreciated clearly that the talk of yesterday was lies; that the man was nothing but a rascal. he was ashamed of his own boyish extravagance. »a hero, indeed!« the superintendent prayerfully recanted. »lord, if he so much as stirs a finger, the blackguard, i'll kill him like a dog. by god, i will!« and that set him thinking why he, the superintendent, an old man full of gout, so much desired to live. because there was hoar frost on the streets? he turned round and shouted savagely: »quick march, there! don't go like sheep!« the wind blew into his overcoat. his jacket was too wide and his whole body quivered in it like the yolk of an egg in a stirring basin. he felt as if he was suddenly shrinking. the palms of his hands, despite the cold, were still sweaty. they surrounded the house as though they had come to take not one sleeper but a host in ambush. then some of them crept along the dark corridor on tiptoe to the fearsome door. a desperate knock--a shout--threats to shoot through the door. and when, almost knocking liuba, half naked, off her feet, they burst into the little room in close formation and filled it with their boots and cloaks and rifles--then they saw him--sitting on the bed in his shirt, with his bare hairy legs hanging down--sitting there silent. no bomb--nothing terrible--nothing but the ordinary room of a prostitute, filthy and repulsive in the early morning light, with its stretch of tattered carpet and scattered clothes, the table smeared and stained with liquor--and sitting on the bed a man, clean shaven and with drowsy eyes, high cheekbones, a swollen face, hairy legs--silent. »hands up!« shouted the superintendent, holding his revolver tighter in his damp hand. but the man neither raised his arms nor made any answer. »search him!« the superintendent ordered. »there's nothing to search! i took his revolver away. oh, my god!« liuba cried, her teeth chattering with fear. she had nothing on but a crumpled chemise; among the others, all wrapped in their cloaks, the two, man and woman, both half naked, roused feelings of shame, disgust, and contempt. they searched his clothing, ransacked the carpet, peered into the corners, into the cupboard, and found nothing. »i took his revolver from him,« liuba thoughtlessly insisted. »silence liubka!« the superintendent shouted. he knew the girl well, had spent two or three nights with her. he believed her; but his relief was so unexpected that out of sheer pleasure he wanted to shout and command and show his authority. »your name?« »i shall not say. i shall not answer any questions at all.« »all right, sir, all right,« the superintendent replied ironically, but somewhat abashed. then he looked again at the naked hairy feet and at the girl shuddering in the corner, and suddenly became suspicious. »is this the right man?« he said, taking a detective aside. »something seems....« the detective went and stared closely in the man's face, then nodded his head decisively. »yes. it's he. he's only shaved his beard. you can recognise him by his cheekbones.« »a brigand's cheekbones, sure enough.« »and look at the eyes, too. i could pick him out of a thousand by his eyes.« »his eyes? let me see the photograph.« he took a long look at the unfinished proof photograph of a man, very handsome, wonderfully pure and young, with a long bushy russian beard. the expression on the face was the same. not grim, but very calm and bright. the cheekbones were not markedly prominent. »you see! his cheekbones don't stand out like....« »they are concealed by the beard, but if you feel under it with the eye....« »it may be, but.... is he a hard drinker?« the detective, tall and thin, with a yellow face and sparse beard, himself a hard drinker, smiled patronizingly. »there's no drinking among them.« »i know there isn't but still....« the superintendent approached the man. »listen! were you an accomplice in the murder of n----?« it was a very important and well known name. but the man remained silent and only smiled and fidgeted with one hairy leg; the toes were bent and distorted by boots. »you are being examined!« »you may as well leave him alone. he won't reply. we'd better wait for the captain and prosecutor. they'll make him talk.« the superintendent smiled, but in his heart for some reason he felt the shrinking again. they had been tearing up the carpet; they had upset something, and there was a very unpleasant smell in the ill-ventilated room. »what filth!« thought the superintendent, though in the matter of cleanliness he was by no means nice. and he looked with disgust at that naked swinging foot. »so he is still fidgeting with his foot,« he thought. he turned round; a young policeman, with pure white eye-lashes and eyebrows, was sneering at liuba, holding his rifle with both hands as a village night watchman holds his staff. »well, liubka,« the superintendent cried, approaching her. »why didn't you report at once who you had with you, you bitch?« »oh, i was....« the superintendent smacked her face twice, quite neatly, first on one cheek then on the other. »take that then! i'll show you!« the man's brows went up and the foot ceased swinging. »so you don't like that, young fellow?« the contempt of the superintendent was growing apace. »what are you going to do about it? you kissed this face, didn't you, and we'll do what we damn well....« he laughed, and the policeman smiled in some agitation. and what was more surprising, even the downtrodden liuba laughed. she looked at the old superintendent in a friendly way, as though she enjoyed his jokes and jollity. from the moment of the arrival of the police she had never looked at the man, betraying him naturally and openly; and this he saw, and was silent and smiled half scoffingly, a strange smile--as a gray stone in the forest, sunk into the ground and mossgrown, might smile. half dressed women were crowding about the door, amongst them some of those who had visited them. but they looked at him indifferently, with a dull curiosity, as though this was the first time they had seen him. apparently they remembered nothing of the night. they were soon hustled away. it was now daylight, and the room was more bleak and repulsive than ever. two officers who evidently had not had their full sleep came in, their faces ruffled, but properly dressed and clean. »it's no good, gentlemen, really,« the superintendent said with a spiteful glance at the man. the officers approached, looked him up and down from his crown to his naked feet with those bent toes, surveyed liuba, and casually exchanged observations. »yes--he's good looking,« said the young one, the one who had invited them all to the cotillion. he had splendid white teeth and silky whiskers and soft eyes with girlish lashes. he looked at the arrested man with disdainful compassion, and wrinkled his eyes as if he were going to cry. there was a corn on the left little toe ... somehow it was horrible and disgusting to see that little yellow mound. and the legs were dirty. »this is a fine pass for you to come to, sir,« he said, shaking his head and painfully contracting his brows. »so that's how it is, mr. anarchist? you're no better than us sinners with the girls? the flesh was weak, eh?« jeered the other, the elder. »why did you give up your revolver? you might at least have had a shot for it. i understand that you found yourself here, as anyone might find himself; but why did you give up your revolver? a poor example to set your comrades!« said the little officer, hotly; and then explained to the elder: »he had a browning with three cartridge clips. just think of it! stupid!« but the man, smiling contemptuously from the height of his new, unmeasured, and terrible truth, looked on the little excited officer and indifferently kept on swinging his leg. the fact of his being nearly naked, of having dirty hairy legs with bent and crooked toes, gave him no sense of shame. had they taken him just as he was and planted him in the most populous square of the city, in front of all the men and women and children, he would have gone on dangling that hairy leg with the same equanimity, smiling the same disdainful smile. »do they know what comradeship is?« said the superintendent. he was savagely looking askance at that swaying leg, and indolently trying to dissuade the officers. »it's no good talking to him, gentlemen, i swear! no good! you know the kind of thing--instructions!« other officers entered quite freely, surveyed the scene and chatted together. one of them, evidently an old acquaintance of the superintendent, shook hands with him. liuba was already coquetting with the officers. »just imagine! a browning with three clips and, like a fool, he gave it up!« the little officer was relating. »i can't understand that!« »you, misha, will never understand this.« »for, after all, they are no cowards!« »you, misha, are an idealist, and the milk has not yet dried on your lips.« »samson and delilah,« one short snuffling officer said ironically; he had a little drooping nose and thin whiskers combed back and upwards. »oh delilah! what a smiler!« they laughed. the superintendent, smiling pleasantly and rubbing his flabby red nose downwards, suddenly approached the man and stood as if to screen him from the officers with his own carcase encased in the loose hanging coat; and he murmured under his breath, rolling his eyes wildly: »shameful, sir! you might at least have put your drawers on, sir! shameful! and a hero, too? involved with a prostitute ... with this carrion-flesh? what will your comrades say of you,--eh, you cur?« liuba, stretching her naked neck, heard him. they were together now, side by side, these three plain truths of life, the corrupt old drunkard who yearned for heroes, the dissolute woman into whose soul some scattered seeds of purpose and self-denial had fallen--and the man. after the superintendent's words, he paled slightly, and seemed to wish to say something--but changed his mind and smiled, and went on swinging that hairy leg. the officers wandered off; the police accommodated themselves to the situation, to the presence of the half naked couple, and stood about sleepily, with that absence of visible thought which renders the faces of all guards alike. the superintendent put his hands on the table and pondered deeply and sadly--that he would not get a nap today, that he would have to go to the station and set matters on foot. but something else made him even more melancholy and weary. »may i dress myself?« asked liuba. »no!« »i'm cold.« »never mind--sit as you are!« the superintendent didn't even look at her. so she turned away, and, stretching out her thin neck, whispered something to the man, softly, with her lips only. he raised his brows in enquiry, and she repeated: »darling! my darling!« he nodded and smiled affectionately. then seeing him smile to to her so gently, though plainly forgetting nothing--seeing him, who was so handsome and proud, now naked and despised by all, with his dirty bare legs, she was suddenly flushed with a feeling of unbearable love and demoniac blind wrath. she gasped, and flung herself on her knees on that damp floor, and embraced those cold hairy feet. »dress yourself, darling!« she murmured in an ecstasy. »dress yourself!« »liubka, stop this!« the superintendent dragged her away. »he's not worth it!« the girl sprang to her feet. »silence, you old profligate! he's better than the whole lot of you put together!« »he's a swine!« »you're a swine!« »what?« the superintendent promptly lost his temper. »tackle her, my man! hold her down. leave your rifle alone, you block-head!« »oh, darling, why did you give up your revolver?« the girl moaned, struggling with the policeman. »why didn't you bring a bomb? we might have ... might have ... them all to....« »gag her!« the panting woman struggled desperately, trying to bite the rough fingers that were holding her. the policeman with the white eye-lashes, disconcerted, not knowing how to fight a woman, was seizing her by her hair, by her breasts, trying to fling her on the ground and sniffing in his desperation. from the corridor new voices were heard, loud, unconcerned, and the jangle of a police officer's spurs. a sweet, sincere, barytone voice was leading, as though a star was making his entrance and now at last the real and serious opera was about to commence. the superintendent pulled his coat straight. * * * * * the hogarth press hogarth house, paradise road, richmond recent publications the gentleman from san francisco, and other stories, by i. a. bunin. translated from the russian by d. h. lawrence, s. s. koteliansky, and leonard woolf. »i. a. bunin is a well known russian writer, but his short stories have not hitherto been published in an english translation. four stories are included in this volume. the »times literary supplement« in reviewing a french translation of the first story in this volume says: »whatever its faults this is certainly one of the most impressive stories of modern times.« daybreak, a book of poems, by fredegond shove. mrs. shove has the distinction of being the only woman poet whose work has been included in _georgian poetry,_ although she has previously published only one volume, _dreams and journeys._ karn, a poem, by ruth manning-sanders. this is an ambitious narrative poem by a young writer who has previously published one book of short poems. unlike most narrative poems it is vivid and readable. the autobiography of countess sophie tolstoi. with introduction and notes by vasilii spiridonov. translated from the russian by s. s. koteliansky and leonard woolf. this autobiography was written by tolstoi's wife in 1913 and is extraordinarily interesting, not only »as a human document,« but in the light which it throws upon tolstoi's life and teaching and on those relations with his wife and family which led up to his »going away«. countess tolstoi wrote it at the request of the late s. a. vengerov, a well known russian critic. he intended to publish it, but this intention was not carried out owing to the war and his death. the ms. was discovered recently among his papers and has just been published in russia. it deals with the whole of tolstoi's married life, but in particular with the differences which arose between him and his wife over his doctrines and his desire to put them into practice in their way of living. it also gives an account of tolstoi's »going away« and death. the book is published with an introduction by vasilii spiridonov and notes and appendices which will contain information regarding tolstoi's life and teachings not before available to english readers. previous publications clive bell poems t. s. eliot poems e. m. forster the story of the siren roger fry twelve original woodcuts. maxim gorky reminiscences of tolstoi. katherine mansfield prelude hope mirrlees paris. a poem j. middleton murry the critic in judgment logan pearsall smith stories from the old testament retold the notebooks of anton tchekhov, together with reminiscences of tchekhov by maxim gorky leonard woolf stories of the east virginia woolf monday or tuesday the mark on the wall. second edition. kew gardens leonard & virginia woolf two stories provided by the internet archive the life of man a play in five acts by leonidas andreyev translated by c. j. hogarth london: george allen & unwin ltd. new york: the macmillan company. 1915 dramatis personæ the being in grey. the father of the man. the man. the man's wife. first doctor. second doctor. an old serving woman. old women of a semi-supernatural character. musicians; friends, enemies, and relations of the man; guests at the man's ball, etc. prologue [_a being, clad in grey, is speaking. he is speaking of the life of man._ [_the stage presents the semblance of a large, square, empty room which has neither doors nor windows, and within which all is uniformly grey and misty. the ceiling, walls, and floor are grey, and from some hidden source there flows a stream of dim, unflickering light, of the same dull, monotonous, elusive colour. this light throws no shadows, nor is reflected back from any point._ [_without a sound the being in grey detaches himself from the wall, with which he has almost seemed to mingle. he is clothed in a loose, grey, shapeless habit, roughly outlining a gigantic frame, and his head is veiled in a cowl of the all-pervading hue. this cowl throws the upper portion of his face into deep shadow, so that no eyes, but only a nose, mouth, and prominent chin are visible; all of which features are as clear-cut in outline and granite-like in texture as though they were hewn of grey stone. at first his lips are tightly compressed; until presently he raises his head a little, and begins to speak in a stern, cold voice--a voice as destitute of passion or emotion as that of some hired clerk reading aloud, with dry nonchalance, the records of a court of law._] look ye and listen, ye who have come hither for sport and laughter; for there is about to pass before you, from its mysterious beginning to its mysterious close, the whole life of a man. hitherto without being; hidden away in the womb of eternity; possessed neither of thought nor feeling; remote from the range of human ken,--the man bursts, in some unknown manner, the bars of non-existence, and announces with a cry the beginning of his brief life. in the night of non-existence there bursts forth also a little candle, lit by an unseen hand. it is the life of that man. mark well its flame: for it is the life of that man. born, the man assumes the name and image of humanity, and becomes in all things like unto other men who dwell upon the earth. their hard lot becomes his, and his, in turn, becomes the lot of all who shall come after him. drawn on inexorably by time, it is not given him to see the next rung on which his faltering foot shall fall. bounded in knowledge, it is not given him to foretell what each succeeding hour, what each succeeding minute, shall have in store for him. in blind nescience, in an agony of foreboding, in a whirl of hopes and fears, he completes the sorry cycle of an iron destiny. first we see him a joyous youth. mark how clearly the candle burns! icy winds from! desert wastes may eddy round it and pass by. its flame may flicker gently, but it still remains quite bright and clear. yet the wax is ever melting as the flame consumes it--yet the wax is ever melting. next we see him a happy man and father. mark how dim, how strange, is now the candle's glimmer! its flame is growing pale and wrinkled, it shivers as with cold, and its light is feebler than of yore. for the wax is ever melting as the flame consumes it--for the wax is ever melting. lastly we see him an old man, weak and ailing. the rungs of the ladder have all been climbed, and only a black abyss yawns before his faltering foot. the flame of the candle is drooping earthward, and turning to a faint blue. it droops and quivers, it droops and quivers--and then softly goes out. thus the man dies. come from darkness, into darkness he returns, and is reabsorbed, without a trace left, into the illimitable void of time. there there is neither thought not feeling, nor any intercourse with men. and i, the unknown, shall remain ever the fellow-traveller of that man--through all the days of his life, through all his journeyings. though unseen by him and his companions, i shall ever be by his side. be he waking or sleeping, be he praying or blaspheming; in the hour of joy, when his soul soars free and fearless; in the hour of sorrow, when his spirit is o'ershadowed by the languor of death, and the blood is curdling back upon his heart; in the hour of victory or defeat as he wages his great contest with the inevitable,--i shall be with him, i shall ever be with him. and ye who have come hither for sport and laughter (ye who none the less must die also), look ye and listen: for there is about to pass before you, and to reveal to you its joys and its sorrows, the brief, fleeting life of a man. [_once more the being in grey is silent; and as his voice ceases, the light becomes wholly extinguished, and his form and the grey, empty room are swallowed up in impenetrable darkness_. ] curtain. act i--the birth of the man [_the stage is in deep shadow--nothing being visible amid the gloom save the silhouetted grey forms of some old, women and the faint outlines of a large and lofty chamber. clad in weird, shapeless garments, the old women look, as they crouch together, like a little cluster of grey mice. they are talking in low tones._] ~dialogue of the old women.~~ i wish i knew which her baby is going to be--a boy or a girl. whatever can it matter to _you?_ nothing; except that i prefer boys. and _i_ prefer girls. they sit quietly at home, and make company when one wants a gossip. oh, you are so fond of company! [_the old women give a chuckle._] the woman herself is hoping it will be a girl, for she says that boys are too boisterous and headstrong, and too fond of running into danger. while they are little (she says) they are for ever climbing tall trees and bathing in deep water; and when they are grown up they take to. fighting, and killing one another. pooh! does she think that _girls_ never get drowned? many a drowned girl's corpse have i seen, and they looked as all drowned corpses do--wet and livid and swollen. and does she think that gauds and jewellery never yet brought a girl to her death? ah, poor thing! she is having a hard and painful childbed of it. here have we been sitting these sixteen mortal hours, and she screaming the whole time! true, she is quieter now, and only gasps and moans, but, a short while ago, it fairly split one's ears to hear her! the doctor thinks she is going to die. no, no! what the doctor said was that the _child_ will be born dead, but the mother herself recover. but why need there be births at all? they are such painful things! well, why need there be deaths either? they are more painful still, are they not? [_the old women chuckle again._] ah well, 'tis the way of the world--births and deaths, births and deaths. yes; and then more births. [_for the third time the old women chuckle. at the same moment there is heard behind the scenes a stifled cry, as of a woman in agony._] there! she is going to scream again! well, at least it is a good sign that she has recovered her voice. yes, it is a good sign. that poor husband of hers! the silly fool is in such a way about it that it makes one almost die of laughing to see him. a short while ago he was in raptures because his wife was pregnant, and kept saying that he hoped the baby would be a boy. perhaps he thought that any boy of _his_ would grow up to be a minister of state or a general at the very least! but now he wants neither boy nor girl, but only fusses about and weeps. when the pangs come upon her he seems to suffer almost as much as she does. he grows absolutely livid in the face! a short while ago they sent him to the chemist's for some medicine; but, after kicking his heels about outside the shop for two mortal hours, he was still unable to remember what he had come for, and had to go home again empty-handed. [_the old women burst into renewed chuckles, while the screams behind the scenes increase for a moment, and then die away again into silence._] what ails her now? surely she has not expired? not she! had that been so, we should have heard the waiters beginning their lament, and the doctor running about the house, and chattering his foolish nonsense. besides, her husband would have been gone off into a dead faint and been brought in here, and then _we_ should have had some work to do. no, no; she's not dead. then why need we stay here longer? oh, ask _him_. how can _we_ tell what is going to happen? he never tells us _anything_--never! no, indeed! he is a perfect pest to us--for ever pulling us out of our beds, and setting us to watch, and then telling us that we need not have come after all! nevertheless, since we _are_ here, we may as well do something. there! she is screaming again! anyway, we could not help coming, could we? no; he gave us no choice in the matter. yet surely you have had enough watching by now? oh, i just sit quiet and wait--sit quiet and wait. what a patient old lady you are, to be sure! [_the old women chuckle again, and the screams grow louder._] how dreadful those screams sound! what agony she must be in! do you know what that agony is like? it is like having one's entrails torn out. oh, we have all been through it in our time. yes, but i doubt whether _she_ has before. listen to that voice of hers! one would hardly know it to be hers at all. it used to be such a sweet and gentle one. well, 'tis more like the howl of a wild beast now. besides, it has a sort of a night sound in it. yes. it puts me in mind of great, dark, lonely forests, and of utter solitude and desolation. yes; and of despair and a broken heart. but is there no one in the room with her? why is it we hear no voices but hers--no voices but that terrible, yelling, shrieking voice of hers? oh, there are people in the room with her, only we do not seem to remark their voices when she is screaming. have you never noticed that a scream always appears to stand out from other sounds? no matter how many persons there be talking and chattering together, let but a scream be uttered, and the whole world seems to be struck silent and listening to it. yes, once i heard a man cry out as he was being run over by a wagon. the street was full of people at the time, yet at the moment he might have been the only one in it. but this is a stranger sound than any _man_ could utter. perhaps it is a trifle more _shrill_. no, no, it is more prolonged. perhaps you are right. it is a stranger sound than any man could utter. besides, it has the ring of death in it. well? was there not a ring of death in that man's cry as well? he died, didn't he? yes, yes; but never mind. we need not quarrel about it. [_for a moment there is silence. then the screams begin again._] what a strange thing is a scream! if it is you yourself who are screaming you never notice how horrible the screams sound: but if it is some one else-----what throat can possibly produce such a noise as she is making? surely it cannot be a woman's throat? no, no; i cannot believe it! the cries sound as though her neck were being twisted round and round. or as though the cries were coming from some deep hollow in her chest. now they are more like the gasps of a drowning man. listen to the choking noise she is making! it sounds as though some heavy person were kneeling on her chest. or as though she were being strangled. [_the screams suddenly cease._] there! at last she is quiet again. i was getting tired of it all. it was such a monotonous, ugly screaming. did you expect to find it _beautiful_, then? [_the old women chuckle._] hush! is _he_ here? i do not know. i believe he is. he does not approve of laughter. they say he laughs himself at times. who knows? it is mere gossip. they tell so many strange stories about him. anyway, he might hear us, so we had better keep a straight face upon us. [_the old women chuckle again._] what i want to know is--will the baby be a boy or a girl? yes, 'tis always nice to know what one is going to deal with. i hope it may die before birth. how kind of you! not more so than of you. and _i_ trust it may grow up to be a general. [_the old women chuckle again._] some of you are very merry now. i do not quite like it. and _i_ do not quite like your looking so gloomy. no quarrelling, no quarrelling! every one must be either merry or gloomy; so let each be what she pleases. [_there is a pause_.] _babies_ are merry enough things, if you like. yes, and spoilt too. and troublesome as well. i cannot abide them. as soon as ever they are born they begin to cry out, and to beg for what they want, just as though everything ought to be ready to their hand at once. even before they can see out of their eyes they have learnt that there are such things in the world as a breast and milk, and straightway they ask for them. then they need to be put to bed, and to be rocked to sleep, and to have their little red backs patted. for my part, i like them best when they are dying. then they grow less clamorous--they just stretch themselves out, and require rocking to sleep no more. but they are such _playful_ little dears! how i love to wash them just after they are born! and _i_ to wash them just after they are dead! no quarrelling, no quarrelling! each to her own taste. one loves to wash them after they, are born, and another to wash them after they are dead. that is all about it. but what right have babies to think that they may cry for what they want? it does not seem to me the proper thing. they think nothing at all about it. 'tis their stomach which does the asking. but 'tis _they_ who do the actual asking, is it not? perhaps so; but they do not always get. [_the old women chuckle again. presently the screams recommence behind the scenes._] there! she is screaming again! 'tis a strange 'fact, but animals seem to have easier young-bearing than women do. yes, and easier dying too--and easier living, into the bargain. you should see how sleek and contented my cat is! the same with my dog. every day i say to him, '_your_ turn too will come to die,' but he only grins at me, and goes on wagging his tail as merrily as ever. ah, but they are only animals. well, and what else are women? [_again the old women chuckle._] dying, or about to be delivered, she has nearly come to the end of her strength now. you can tell that by the sound of her cries. i can see her eyes starting! and the cold sweat on her brow! [_again the old women chuckle._] she is about to be delivered! no, she is dying! [_suddenly the screams cease._] i tell you---[_at this instant the being in grey stands out momentarily in clearer relief as he exclaims in a deep, sonorous voice:_] silence ye! a man is being born into the world. [_and almost as he speaks the cry of a baby is heard behind the scenes, and the tall candle in the hand of the being bursts into flame. at first weak and, fitful, the flame grows stronger by degrees; yet though the corner in which the being is standing is in deeper shadow than the rest of the scene, the candle's yellow light is in minates only his tightly compressed lips, high cheekbones, and prominent chin, while the rest of his face remains hidden, as before, in the shadow of the cowl. in stature he is above the ordinary height of man, and the candle in his hand is proportionately tall and massive. set in a candlestick of antique design (the green bronze of which causes the fingers encircling it to show up grey and stonelike as those of some statue'), the candle burns up with sufficient brightness to make the crouching forms of the old women stand out clearly from the obscurity. also, the room is now seen to be a high and perfectly square apartment, with bare, colourless walls; while both in the back wall and in the wall to the right are curtainless casement windows, through which the outer night shows darkly. ranged against the walls are a number of chairs with high, straight backs._] [_the old women begin to utter excited exclamations._] hark! people are hurrying about! presently they will be coming in here! how light it is growing! let us go, let us go! see how clearly and steadily the candle burns! yes, let us go, let us go! quickly, quickly! yes, let us go, let us go! [_bursting into shrill laughter, they begin with weird, zigzag movements to shuffle away through the gloom. yet, though, with their departure, the light grows stronger, there still remains a dim, cold, lifeless air about the scene._ [_enter a doctor, accompanied by the father of the man. the doctor is clad in a white hospital overall, and wears a look at once wise and self-important. contrariwise, the father's face, though expressive of great relief, is deeply scored with anxiety. also, his cheeks look sunken, his hair is dishevelled, and his clothes are in much disorder._] ~the doctor.~~ up to; the very last moment i was in doubt as to whether your wife would come safely through it. i brought all my knowledge and skill to bear upon her, but even the most skilful doctor is of little avail unless nature herself come to his aid. besides, i was feeling very nervous. even yet my pulse is throbbing. curiously enough, though i have helped to bring hundreds of babies into the world, i have never yet succeeded in overcoming a certain feeling of diffidence during the opera---but you are not listening to me, sir? ~the father.~~ oh yes, i am listening to you, but i cannot altogether take in what you say. her screams still ring in my ears, and have made me dull of comprehension. poor woman, how she suffered! in my folly and conceit i was so anxious to have a child, but now i renounce that criminal wish for ever. ~the doctor.~~ oh, you will soon be sending for me again, when the next baby arrives. ~the father.~~ no, never! i am almost ashamed to say it, but i actually _hate_ this child which has put her to such pain. i have not even seen it. what is it like? ~the doctor.~~ it is a fine, strong, healthy boy, and greatly, resembles yourself, if i mistake not. ~the father.~~ oh, it resembles me, does it? well, i am pleased at that! i begin to feel a little more drawn towards the child. it had always been my desire to have a boy--and especially one which resembled myself. you have seen the child. has it, then, a nose like mine? ~the doctor.~~ yes, and eyes too. ~the father.~~ _and_ eyes? oh, that is capital! i feel as though i ought to pay you a trifle over your fee. ~the doctor.~~ well, let us call it an extra honorarium for the instruments which i had to use. [_the father of the man turns towards the corner wherein the figure of the being in grey stands motionless, and utters the following prayer:_] ~the father.~~ o lord and creator of life, i thank thee for according me my heart's desire, and granting me a son like myself. i thank thee also for watching over my beloved wife, and enabling her to bear the child in safety. i beseech thee that the child may grow up wise and honourable, and that he may never at any time bring sorrow upon the heads of us, his father and mother. if thou wilt grant me this my petition, i swear that i will trust in thee for ever, and worship thee in thy holy temple. for i feel a great love arising in me for my son. [_enter the relations, to the number of six. first, there is a stout, elderly lady who has a double chin, small, puffy eyes, and a pompous, self-important manner. next, there is her husband, who is so tall and thin that his clothes seem literally to hang on him, as on a clothes-peg. also, he has spectacles, a short, pointed beard, smooth, damp-looking hair which straggles over his shoulders, and a manner which, though diffident, is also curiously didactic. in his hands he holds a black, low-crowned hat, and he appears to stand in awe of his wife. these two are accompanied by a young girl, their daughter, who has an impudently upturned nose, twinkling eyes, and a mouth perpetually half-open. likewise there is a tall, thin lady, of sour, depressed mien, who at times wipes her lips with the handkerchief perpetually dangling from her hands. finally, there are two youths, precisely identical in appearance, with long, thin necks encased in high collars, hair smoothly plastered over their foreheads, and an expression of bewilderment and vacuity on their faces which would seem to denote that their mental faculties are, as yet, but in the growing stage._ ] ~elderly lady.~~ let me congratulate you, my dear brother, on the birth of a son. ~her husband.~~ let me congratulate you, my dear brother-in-law, on the advent of this long-expected child. ~the rest.~~ (_in unison._) we all of us congratulate you, our dear kinsman. ~the father.~~ (_with much emotion._) i thank you--i thank you all! you are most kind, good, and charming people, and i am greatly beholden to you. true, hitherto i had felt a little doubtful concerning you; for i had thought that you, my dear sister, were too much taken up with yourself and your many estimable qualities; that you, my dear brother-in-law, were inclined to be a trifle pedantic; and, as regards the rest, that they cared less for myself than for what they could get to eat at my house. but now i see that i was wrong. i am very happy, not only because i have been granted a son who is like myself, but also, because the birth of this child has afforded me an opportunity of seeing here so many good people who love me. [_there is general embracing._] ~the daughter.~~ what do you intend to _call_ your son, dear uncle? i should so like him to have a beautiful, poetic name i it makes so much difference what one calls a boy. ~elderly lady.~~ _i_ should like him to have a plain, sensible: name. people with beautiful, poetic names are always light-minded, and seldom get on in life. ~her husband.~~ and _i_ think, my dear brother-in-law, that you ought to give him the name of one of his elder relatives. it is a custom which tends to continue and strengthen family ties. ~the father.~~ yes. but first my wife and i must think the matter over. we cannot come to a decision yet. so many new ideas and responsibilities arise with the advent of a baby! ~elderly lady.~~ it is an event which imparts a great _fulness_ to life. ~her husband.~~ yes, and also a great sense of _purpose in life._ for, as we educate a child--removing out of its path those obstacles over which we ourselves, in early days, have stumbled, and strengthening its mind with the aid of our own matured experience--we, as it were, construct a new and better replica of ourselves, and thus enable the race to move slowly, but surely, forward towards the ultimate goal of existence--towards _perfection_. ~the father.~~ you are quite right, most estimable brother-in-law. when i was a boy i used to torment dumb animals, and the practice bred in me cruelty: wherefore i shall never allow my son to be unkind to any living thing. again, when i was grown up i fell into many, errors as regards the bestowal of my friendship and affections--i chose unworthy comrades, and loved deceitful women; but now i shall warn my son that---[_enter the doctor hurriedly._] ~the doctor.~~ sir, your wife has taken a turn for the worse. you ought to go and see her at once. ~the father.~~ my god! [_exit with the doctor, while the relations seat themselves in a semicircle, and for a while preserve a solemn silence. meanwhile the being in grey stands motionless as before, with his stony face turned towards the company,_] ~dialogue of the relations.~~ ~the husband.~~ my dear wife, do you not think that our sister-in-law is going to die? ~elderly lady.~~ no, i do not. she was always a nervous, fidgety woman--a woman who made overmuch of her ailments. all of us have to go through childbed, and few of us die of it. why, i myself have been through it six times! ~the daughter.~~ but she screamed so dreadfully, mother dear? and she grew quite black in the face with it? ~elderly lady.~~ it was not with screaming; it was a mere nervous flush. you do not understand these things. _i_ used to turn quite black in the face, though i never uttered a single scream. not long ago the wife of an engineer of my acquaintance had a baby, and she never uttered a sound from start to finish. i know. my brother should not grow so alarmed, but keep himself in hand, and take a saner, cooler view of things. i am afraid he will bring much indulgence and absurdity to bear upon the education of this child. yes. he is a man much too easily influenced. though anything but rich, he gives away money to the most undeserving people. do you know how much he paid for this child's _layette?_ do not speak of it! my brother's extravagance fairly sickens me! we have had many quarrels about it. they say it is a stork which brings the babies. what a funny stork it must be! [_the young people laugh._] oh, do not talk such nonsense. i myself have brought six babies into the world, and _i_ am no stork. [_the young people laugh still more unrestrainedly, despite the fact that the elderly lady is regarding them with a fixed and stony stare._] really, you children ought to know that that is a mere fable. babies are born quite naturally, and in a way which is perfectly familiar to science. they have moved to another flat now. who have? that engineer and his wife of whom i was speaking. they found their old quarters too damp and cold. they made many complaints to the landlord, but he took no notice of them. in my opinion a small, but warm, flat is preferable to a large, but cold, one. a cold flat can so easily give one one's death of influenza or rheumatism! i know some people who are living in a _terribly_ cold flat. and i too. what a number of cold flats there seem to be nowadays! do you know, i have often wanted to hear of a good method for removing grease stains from light materials. woollen materials? no, silken. very well, then. take a piece of clean glass, and rub the stains with it. then, after plenty of friction, iron with a hot iron. really? how simple! but i was told that turpentine is best? may we smoke now? somehow i never felt a desire to smoke while we were waiting for the birth of that baby. we never had a chance to do so. how absurd! of course one would not want to smoke at a _funeral_, but on such an occasion as this we really---smoking is a most pernicious habit. both of you are young men, and ought to guard your health. there are so many occasions in after-life when health is everything. but tobacco gives one a stimulus? believe me, it is a very unhealthy stimulus. i too used to smoke when i was young and foolish. mamma, how the baby cries! how it does cry! does it want milk? [_the young people burst into renewed laughter, while the elderly lady regards them with a stern air of reproval._] curtain. act ii--love and poverty [_the stage is in clear light, while the scene represents a large, lofty room with bare walls of a bright pink colour that is intersected, in places, with grey tracery fantastically designed. to the right are two curtainless casement windows through which the outer night shows darkly, while the furniture consists of a couple of bedsteads, two chairs, and a rough deal table, on the latter of which stands a broken water-jug, holding a bunch of wild flowers. in one corner (which is in deeper shadow than the rest of the apartment) stands the being in grey. the candle in his hand is burnt away for a third of its length, yet its flame remains steady, bright, and tall, and throws the statuesque face of the being into strong relief._] [_enter a group of neighbours, dressed in holiday attire, and carrying in their hands flowers, wild grasses, and sprigs of oak and birch. they disperse themselves about the room, looking cheerful, kindly, simple, and solicitous as they do so._] ~dialogue of the neighbours.~~ how poor they must be! see, they have not even a spare chair. nor curtains to the windows! nor pictures on the walls! nor a morsel in their larder except some stale bread! nor anything to drink but water--cold water from the well! nor sufficient clothes to wear! for she is always to be seen in the same worn-out pink dress and frayed hair-riband--things only fit for a servant-girl to wear, and _he_ is never to be seen in anything but an artist's blouse with turned-down collar--a garment which makes him look like a tramp, and sets all the dogs barking at him. yes, so much so that respectable people are afraid of him. dogs never like poor people. yesterday i saw no fewer than three dogs flying at him at once; yet he only cried, as he beat them off with his stick: "do not you dare to tear my trousers! they are the only ones i have left!" all the time he was laughing, though the dogs were showing their teeth at him, and growling most furiously. and only to-day i saw a smart lady and gentleman so nervous at his appearance that they crossed to the other side of the road to avoid passing him. "i think he is going to beg of us," the gentleman said, and the lady exclaimed shrilly that probably he would assault them as well. so they crossed over--eyeing him carefully as they did so, and keeping a tight hold upon their pockets. but he only tossed his head and laughed. yes, he is always in good spirits. both of them are like that--always merry. yes, and singing too; or, rather, he sings, and she dances to his singing, in that poor pink dress of hers and shabby riband! it is quite a pleasure to look at them, they are so youthful and handsome. all the same, i feel very, very sorry for them. at times they are almost starving. to think of it!--starving! yes, too true. once upon a time they had plenty of furniture and clothes; but, little by little, they have had to sell them, until now they have nothing at all left. yes, i remember the time when she used to wear beautiful serge dresses; but now those dresses have had to go for bread. and he used to wear a fine frockcoat--the one in which he got married; but that too has had to go. in fact, the only valuables they have left to them are their wedding-rings. what poverty, to be sure! oh, they do not care, they do not care! i too have been young, and know how one takes things at that age. what do you say, grandfather? i say that they do not care, they do not care. see, it almost makes grandfather sing, even to think of them! yes, and dance too! [_there is general laughter._] and her husband is _so_ kindhearted! one day he made my little boy a bow-and-arrows. and when my little girl fell ill his wife wept almost as much as i did. and when my garden wall fell down he helped me to build it up in no time. what a fine strong fellow he is, to be sure! yes, it is quite pleasant to have such kindly folks for neighbours. their youthfulness helps to warm our chilly old age, and their lightheartedness to drive away our care. but this poor room of theirs looks like a prison-cell, it is so bare. nay. say, rather, it is like a church, it is so bright! see the flowers on the table! she ha's been plucking them as she walked through the fields, in that poor pink gown of hers and faded hair-riband. here are some may lilies, with the dew not dry upon them. and a bright red pineflower. and violets. and field grasses. do not touch them, dear children--do not touch the flowers. she has imprinted her kiss upon them, so we must not let them fall to the ground. she has breathed her sweet breath upon them, so we must not mingle our breath with hers. do not touch them, dear children--do not touch them. she means him to see them the moment he enters the room. yes, and to receive her sweet kisses from them. and to scent her dear breath in theirs. come! we must go now, we must go now. but surely we did not come here to leave nothing behind us for these charming young neighbours of ours? that would be a sorry thing to do! i have brought a loaf of spiced bread and a bottle of milk. and i some sweet, fresh herbs. if we strew; the floor with them it will look like a verdant meadow, and smell of spring. and i some flowers. and we some sprigs of oak and birch, with their pretty green leaves. if we deck the walls with them the room will look like a fresh, luxuriant arbour. and my present is a fine cigar. it did not cost very much, but it is mellow and strong, and will be a splendid thing to dream over. and i have brought her a new pink hair-riband. when she has bound up her hair with it she will look so neat and charming! it was given me by my sweetheart, but _i_ have many ribands, whereas she has only one. and what have _you_ brought with you, little girl? surely you have brought some present for our good neighbours? no, nothing--nothing. at least, i have brought my cough with me, but they would not care for _that_, would they, neighbour? no, no, little girl; no more than they would for my crutches. ah, dear child, who would care for crutches? but you leave good wishes behind you, grandfather, do you not? yes, yes, my dear. and so, i know, do you. now we must go, good neighbours, for it is getting late. [_the neighbours begin to leave the room--some of them yawning as they go, the little girl coughing badly, and the old man stumping along on crutches._] yes, we must go now, we must go now. god grant them the best of good fortune, for they are such a kindly couple! yes, god grant them always good health and happiness and mutual love: and may he see to it that never a black cat step between them, to bring them evil luck! and may the poor young man find work to do; for it goes hard with a man when he cannot find work to earn his daily bread! [_exeunt all._ [_enter the man's wife, her hair decked with wild flowers, and her whole appearance graceful, pretty, and innocent. at the same time, her face is expressive of deep dejection, and as she sits down to the table she turns towards the audience, and says in a sorrowful voice:_] i have just returned from the town, where i have been looking for, i have been looking for--oh, i hardly know _what_ i have been looking for. we are so poor that we have nothing in all the world. indeed, we find it a struggle even to live. we need money, money; yet i know not where to get it. if i were to go out into the streets and beg i feel sure that no one would give me anything. no, every one would refuse me. and, moreover, i have not the courage to do it. i have tried hard to get work for my husband, but it is not to be got. every one to whom i apply says that there is too little work to do, and too many people to do it. i have even roamed the town, and searched the roadways, in the hope that some rich lady or gentleman might have dropped a purse or jewellery; but either no one had done so, or else some mortal, luckier than i, had found the treasure first. oh, i am so unhappy! soon my husband will be coming home--tired out with his long search for work to do; yet once more he will find that i have nothing for him but my poor kisses! and kisses will not feed a starving man. oh, i am so unhappy that i could weep for ever! to me it is nothing to have to go hungry--indeed, i scarcely feel it; but he is different, for he has a larger frame to feed, and requires more food. when he has had to go hungry a little while he begins to look so white and ill, so thin and worried! he takes to scolding me, and then gives me a kiss, and begs me not to mind what he has said. but _i_ never mind; i love him too much for that. oh, i am so unhappy! he is one of the cleverest architects in all the world. indeed, i believe he is a veritable genius. left, when quite an infant, to face the world alone, he was adopted by some relations. but, alas! his quick and independent temper led him to say things which displeased them, and caused them to declare that he was ungrateful; with the result that, in the end, they turned him from their doors again. yet still he continued his studies--maintaining himself the while by giving lessons, and often going hungry. yes, he came well to know what hunger meant! yet now, though he has completed his course of studies, and become a fully qualified architect, and can do the most beautiful designs imaginable, no one will accept them. nay, some stupid people even laugh at them! to succeed in life one needs two things--influence and a lucky star: and he has neither. so he goes wandering about, ever looking for a chance--any sort of a chance--to find work to do. it may even be that, like myself, he searches the roadways for lost purses, for he is but a boy in mind as well as in years. of course, _some_ day we shall succeed: but the question is, when will that be? meanwhile life is very hard for us; for although, when we married, we had a little money, it soon disappeared, what with too many visits to the theatre and too much eating of bonbons. _he_ is still sanguine of success, but i--well, sometimes i seem to lose all hope, and give way to tears when quite alone. even now my heart is aching to think that here is he coming home--only to find nothing for him but my poor kisses! [_she rises from her chair, and goes down upon her knees._] o lord god, be unto us a kind and pitying father. thou hast so much to give of what we need--of bread, of work, of money. thy earth is so rich, it brings forth so much fruit and corn in its fields--it covers its meadows with so many flowers, it yields such weight of gold, such countless shining gems from the depths of its dark bowels! thy sun's rays have so much warmth in them; in the shining of thy stars there is so much pensive and peaceful joy! give us, then, but a little of that bounty--but a little, but so much as thou bestowest upon thy birds: a little bread to stay the hunger of my brave, beloved husband, a little warmth to fend him from the cold, a little work to do, that he may raise his handsome head once more. and, i beseech thee, be not angry with him that he should scold me so often, and that at other times he should laugh and bid me dance: for he is as yet but young, and cannot always be grave and sober. [_she rises to her feet again._] there! now that i have said a prayer i feel better--i begin to hope once more. surely god must give _occasionally_ when he is entreated so often? now i will go out again and search the roadways, in the hope that some one may have dropped a purse or some jewellery. [_exit._ ~the being in grey.~~ the woman knows not that her prayer is already granted. she knows not that this very day some noblemen have been bending eagerly over some designs submitted by the man, and that finally they have decided to accept them. all this day those two noblemen have been seeking the man in vain. yea, wealth has been seeking him, even as hitherto he has been seeking wealth. and early on the morrow, at the hour when workmen are setting forth to their toil, a carriage will draw up at the entrance to the man's dwelling, and the two wealthy noblemen will enter his humble chamber--bowing low in courteous salutation as they do so, and bringing with them the first beginnings of his fame and fortune. but, as yet, neither the man nor his wife knows of this, although good fortune is coming to the man as surely as some day it will depart again. [_enter the man and his wife. the former has a proud, handsome head, brilliant eyes, a high forehead, and dark eyebrows--the latter springing from a point so low down the nose as almost to resemble a pair of small, clearly defined wings attached to that member. his wavy black hair is flung back clear of his brow, and there are visible, over a soft, white turned-down collar, a well-set neck and a portion of the throat. although his movements are as quick and elastic as those of some young animal, his pose is purely that of a symmetrical, well-balanced human being._] ~the man.~~ once more nothing! soon i shall have to take to lying in bed all day: so that whoever wants to see me will have to come to _me_, not i go to _him_. yes, i will begin that mode of life to-morrow. ~his wife.~~ are you so tired, then, my darling? ~the man.~~ yes, tired and hungry; and though i could devour a whole ox, like one of homer's heroes, i suppose i shall have to put up with a piece of dry bread! yet a man cannot go on eating dry bread for ever, when all the time his appetite craves to be sated--craves for something into which it can plunge its teeth, and gorge itself, and be filled. ~his wife.~~ i am so sorry for you, my dearest one! ~the man.~~ as i am for you. yet that makes me none the less ravenous. to-day i spent a whole hour in front of a cookshop; and just as people gape at masterpieces of art, so did i gape at the fat pies and capons and sausages in the window. and oh, the signboard above them! do you know, it is possible to depict a ham on a signboard so cunningly that one could devour it, signboard and all. ~his wife.~~ yes--i too could eat something. ~the man.~~ of course. who could not? but do you like lobsters? ~his wife.~~ i simply adore them! ~the man.~~ then what a lobster i saw there! though only a painted one, he was fairer even than the reality. red, stately, and severe as a cardinal, he looked fit for consecration. i believe i could eat _two_ such cardinals, and a reverend father carp into the bargain. ~his wife.~~ (_sadly._) but you have not noticed my flowers? the man. flowers, flowers? do you expect me to eat _them!_ ~his wife.~~ ah, you cannot love me, to speak thus! ~the man.~~ forgive me, forgive me, but i am so hungry! see how my hand is trembling. i could not even throw a stone at a dog with it. ~his wife.~~ (_kissing his hand._) my poor darling! ~the man.~~ but what is this parcel on the table? it seems to send forth a most unctuous smell. did you put it there? ~his wife.~~ no indeed! it must have been the neighbours. ~the man.~~ what dear, goodhearted folks! but it is strange to think that, for all the kind people in the world, a man may perish of hunger! why should that be?--ah! look there! ~his wife.~~ how you frighten me! how your eyes are staring! what is it you see? surely it is something dreadful? ~the man.~~ yes. even as i jested there uprose before me--there, in that dark corner--the terrible figure of starvation! do you not see it now? its hands are stretched forth as in piteous appeal, like those of some poor child which is lost in a forest and keeps crying out in a voice of childish agony--a voice which echoes and re-echoes in the deserted wilds--"help me, or i die! help me, or i die!"--and there is none to hear! look, my wife, look! see how those dark shadows quiver and float, like volumes of black smoke belched forth from some deep shaft leading down to the pit of hell! see! see! i am being drawn into them! ~his wife.~~ oh, i am terrified! i dare not look into that corner!--but, nay, nay; 'twas only in the street you saw all this? ~the man.~~ yes, it was only in the street; but soon i shall be seeing it in this room. ~his wife.~~ no, no! god would never permit it! ~the man.~~ but why not? does he not permit it to happen to _other_ people? ~his wife.~~ yes; but we are better than they. we are _good_ people, and have done no wrong. ~the man.~~ think you so? then remember all my cruel scoldings of you. ~his wife.~~ but you have never _really_ been cruel to me. ~the man.~~ yes, i have!--yes, many and many a time! nor is that all; for no wild boar could fall to grinding his tusks more wickedly than i do as i wander through the streets and gaze upon all those things whereof we stand in such desperate need. ah, how much money there is in the world that we have not got! listen to me, little wife. this afternoon i was walking in the park--that beautiful park where the paths run straight as pistol-shots, and the beech-trees look like kings in crowns. ~his wife.~~ and i too was walking in the streets, with shops, shops, shops everywhere--such beautiful shops! ~the man.~~ and people passed me who were carrying gold-mounted canes and wearing splendid clothes: and i could not help thinking to myself, "ah, _i_ have none of these things!" ~his wife.~~ and i too was passed by rich people--by fine ladies in dainty boots which made their feet look so elegant, and exquisite hats from under which their eyes glanced so bewitchingly, and silken petticoats which gave their figures such an inexpressible charm: and i could not help thinking to myself, "ah, _i_ have no smart hats and silken petticoats!" ~the man.~~ one dandy had the impudence to jostle me, but i just gave him a glimpse of my boar's tusks, and he very soon lost himself in the crowd. ~his wife.~~ and i too was jostled by a fine lady; yet i could not bring myself even to look at her, i felt so miserable! ~the man.~~ also, i saw people riding in the park--riding fiery, spirited horses. alas, _i_ have none such! ~his wife.~~ one fine lady whom i met was wearing diamond earrings--earrings which i could actually have kissed! ~the man.~~ red and green motor-cars, with great, glaring eyes, were gliding along as silently as ghosts, and the people in them were laughing and jesting and looking indolently about them. alas, _i_ have no motor-car! ~his wife.~~ nor i diamonds, nor emeralds, nor clear white pearls! ~the man.~~ up above the ornamental water there was a restaurant, blazing with lights like the firmament of heaven; and in it people were dining, while men in tail-coats who might have been ministers of state, and white-aproned women who looked like veritable winged angels, were carrying wine and dishes about. and every one was eating and drinking, eating and drinking. ah, how i too could have eaten and drunk! my wife, my wife, i am so hungry! ~his wife.~~ my poor darling, it is having to walk about so much that makes you hungry. but never mind. sit down here, and i will climb on to your knee, and you shall take paper and pencil and draw me a beautiful, beautiful palace. ~the man.~~ ah, but my inspiration seems equally to be suffering from hunger; it cannot rise above pictures of eatables, and for a long while past i have been making my palaces look like pies filled with rich stuffing and my churches like pease-puddings. but i see tears in your eyes! what ails thee, little wife of mine? ~his wife.~~ it hurts me so much to think that i can do nothing for you! ~the man.~~ is that it? then am i filled with shame to think that i--i, a strong man, talented, educated, and in the prime of life--should sit here grumbling until i have seen my poor little wife--the good fairy of the legends--burst into tears! when a woman weeps it is a man's shame. i am overcome with remorse. ~his wife.~~ but it is not _your_ fault that people do not appreciate you. ~the man.~~ nevertheless i blush to my ears. i feel that i deserve as sound a whipping as ever i received when i was a boy. to think that you too were hungry--as hungry as i am--and that i never noticed it! oh, what a selfish egoist am i! it was shameful of me! ~his wife.~~ my dearest one, i was not, i am not, hungry. ~the man.~~ oh, it was shameful and unmanly of me! the dandy who jostled me in the park did rightly, for he saw that it was a mere sensual pig that was passing him by--a wild boar of sharp tusks indeed, but most gross mind. ~his wife.~~ if you go on scolding yourself so unjustly i shall weep again. ~the man.~~ no, no, you must not weep. when i see tears in those pretty eyes i am seized with dread. yes, i am afraid of those little crystal drops; for, whenever i behold them, i feel as though it were not you, but some stranger whom i know not, that were shedding them. no, you must not weep. we are poor, and have nothing, i know, but we can talk of what we shall surely have _some_ day, and i can tell you bright fairy tales, and wrap you round with shining fancies, my little queen. ~his wife.~~ ah, we have no cause to be afraid. you are too strong, and too great a genius, to be vanquished by life. the present time will pass away, and inspiration will once more spread its influence over your splendid head. [_the man assumes a proud and daring attitude of challenge, and throws a sprig of oak towards the corner where stands the being in grey._] ~the man.~~ see thou, whatsoever be thy name--whether fate, life, or devil! i cast thee down my gauntlet, i challenge thee to battle! men of faint heart may bow before thy mysterious power, thy face of stone may inspire them with dread, in thy unbroken silence they may discern the birth of calamity and an impending avalanche of woe. but _i_ am daring and strong, and i challenge thee to battle! let us draw our swords, and join our bucklers, and rain such blows upon each other's crests as shall cause the very earth to shake again! ha! come forth and fight with me! ~his wife.~~ (_with enthusiasm, as she leans upon the man's shoulder._) more boldly yet, my dearest one! more boldly yet! ~the man.~~ to thy vile laggardness i will oppose my swift and living strength--to thy dim mystery my open, ringing laughter! ha! parry thou my strokes if thou canst! at thy dull forehead of stone i will aim the whitehot bullets of my flashing intellect! into thy pitiless heart of stone i will inject the burning poison of remorse for the agony which thou didst cause my mother at my birth! of a surety there shall arise a sun which shall dispel the black thunderclouds of thy cruel enmity! yea, the flashing of our swords shall illumine the darkness! ha! fend thou my passes if thou canst! ~his wife.~~ more boldly yet, my dearest one! more boldly yet! thy trusty armour-bearer stands beside thee, my valiant knight! ~the man.~~ as i advance thou shalt hear me singing such songs as shall echo the wide world through! what though i fall beneath a blow of thine, i will yet utter no cry, but cast about how i may raise myself and renew the combat! in my armour there are weak spots--that i know full well; but though i be covered with wounds, though i be red with my own blood, i will yet summon my last remaining strength to cry, "thou hast not vanquished me yet, thou cruel enemy of man!" ~his wife.~~ more boldly yet, my trusty knight! more boldly yet! i will bathe thy wounds with my tears, and staunch thy red blood with my kisses! ~the man.~~ what though i die upon the field of battle, it will be as brave men die; making thy triumph but an empty one with my never-failing challenge, "thou hast not vanquished me yet, nor wilt thou ever!" in very truth it will be i who will have gained the victory, thou bitter foe of mine: for until my last faint breath shall have been drawn i shall have refused to own thy power! ~his wife.~~ more boldly yet, my knight i more boldly yet! _i_ will die with thee! ~the man.~~ ha! come forth to battle! let us flash our swords, and join our bucklers, and rain such blows upon each other's crests as shall cause the very earth to shake again! ha! come forth, come forth! [_for a few seconds the man and his wife retain their respective attitudes. then they turn to one another and em-brace._] ~the man.~~ thus will we deal with life, my little helpmeet. will we not, eh? what though it blink at us like an owl that is blinded by the sun, we will yet force it to smile. ~his wife.~~ yes, and to dance to our singing, too. together we will do it. ~the man.~~ yes, together, my paragon among wives, my trusty comrade, my brave little armour-bearer. so long as i have _thee_ by my side, nothing can make me fear. a fig for poverty! we may be poor to-day, but we shall be rich to-morrow. ~his wife.~~ and what does hunger matter? to-day we may be without a crust, but to-morrow we shall be feasting. ~the man.~~ think you so? well, 'tis very likely. but i shall require a great deal of satisfying. what think you of this for our daily _menu?_ first meal in the morning, tea, coffee, or chocolate, whichever we prefer; then a breakfast of three courses; then luncheon; then dinner; then supper; then---~his wife.~~ yes; and always as much fruit as possible. i adore fruit! ~the man.~~ very well. i will go out and buy it myself--buy it in the market-place, where it is cheapest and most fresh. besides, we shall be having our own fruit garden before long. ~his wife.~~ but we have no land yet? ~the man.~~ no, but i shall soon be buying some. i have always wished to possess an estate, not only as a pleasure-ground, but also as a place where i may build a house from my own designs. the rascally world shall see what an architect i am! ~his wife.~~ i should like the house to be in italy, close to the sea: a villa of white marble, set in the midst of a grove of lime-trees and cypresses, with white marble steps leading down to the blue waters. ~the man.~~ yes, i see your idea. it would be capital. yet _my_ plan, rather, is to build a castle on a norwegian mountain, with a fjord below, and the castle parched on a peak above. have we no paper? well, never mind. i can show you on the wall what i mean. this is the fjord. do you see? ~his wife.~~ yes. how beautiful! ~the man.~~ and here are the deep, sparkling waters, reflecting the tender green of the grass above. here, too, is a red, black, and cinnamon-coloured cliff. and there, in that gap (just where i have made that smudge), is a patch of blue sky, gleaming through a fleecy white cloud. ~his wife.~~ nay, it is not a cloud. rather, it is a white boat, with its reflection in the water, like two white swans joined breast to breast. ~the man.~~ and see, over all there rises a mountain, with sides of brilliant green, except just at the top, where it is more misty and rugged. here, too, are sharp spurs, and dark shadows of clefts, and wisps of cloud. ~his wife.~~ oh, it looks like a ruined castle! ~the man.~~ and _here_--on that "ruined castle," as you call it (just where i have put that mark in the centre)--i will build me a stately mansion. ~his wife.~~ but it will be so cold up there--so windy? ~the man.~~ nay, i shall give the mansion stout walls and huge windows of plate-glass; and then at night, when the winter storms are raging and the fjord is tossing below, we shall draw the curtains over the windows, and heap up a roaring fire (i shall make enormous fireplaces, you know--large enough to hold whole trunks of trees, whole beams of pine). ~his wife.~~ ah! it will be warm enough _then_. ~the man.~~ yes, indeed; and the whole interior will be quiet and restful, for i mean to have soft carpets everywhere, and the walls lined with thousands and thousands of books, and everything looking snug and cheerful. and you and i will sit before the fire on a white bearskin; and when you say to me, "shall we go and look at the storm?" i shall answer, "yes," and we shall run to the largest of the great windows, and draw aside the curtains: and then, my god, what a night it will look like. ~his wife.~~ snowflakes whirling by! ~the man.~~ yes; like little white horses galloping, or myriads of tiny, frightened souls, pale with fear and seeking shelter in the night. and there will be such a howling and a roaring! ~his wife.~~ and i shall say that i am cold, and give a shiver. ~the man.~~ and then we shall scamper back to the fire, and i shall call aloud, "ho, there! bring me the ancestral goblet--the one of pure gold from which vikings have drunk--and fill it with aureate wine, and let us drain the soul-warming draught to the dregs!" meanwhile we shall have had a chamois roasting on the spit, and again i shall call aloud, "ho, there! bring hither the venison, that we may eat it!" yes, and in about two seconds i shall be eating _you_, little wife, for i am as hungry as the devil. ~his wife.~~ well, suppose they have brought the roast chamois? go on. what next? ~the man.~~ what next? well, once i have begun to eat it, there will soon be little of it left--and therefore nothing more to tell. but what are you doing to my head, little playmate? ~his wife.~~ i am the goddess of fame. i have woven you a chaplet of the oak-leaves which the neighbours brought, and am crowning you with it. thus shall fame--yes, real, resounding fame-some day be yours. [_she crowns him with the chaplet._] ~the man.~~ yes, fame, fame, resplendent fame! look here on the wall as i draw. this is myself advancing. do you see? but who is that with me? ~his wife.~~ i! ~the man.~~ yes. and see how people are bowing down to us, and whispering about us, and pointing us out with their fingers. here is a city father shedding tears of joy as he exclaims, "happy is our town to have been the birthplace of such children!" here, too, a certain young man turns pale with emotion as he gazes upon his handiwork; for fortune has smiled upon him at last, and he has built a city hall that is the pride of all the land. ~his wife.~~ yes, even as you are _my_ pride. and even as i have placed this wreath of oak-leaves upon your head, so will the day come when you are accorded one of laurels. ~the man.~~ but look again. here are other magnates of my native town advancing to pay me their respects. they make low bows--yes, to the very ground--and say, "our town rejoices at having been accorded the honour of----" ~his wife.~~ oh! ~the man.~~ what is it? ~his wife.~~ i have found a bottle of milk i ~the man.~~ surely not? ~his wife.~~ and bread!--beautiful spiced bread!--and a cigar! ~the man.~~ impossible! you must be joking. or you must have mistaken some of the damp from these accursed walls for milk. ~his wife.~~ no, no. indeed i have not. ~the man.~~ and a cigar! cigars do not grow on windowsills. they cost money, and have to be bought in shops. what you see is only a piece of black twig, or something of the kind. ~his wife.~~ but look for yourself. i am sure it must be the neighbours who have left these things for us. ~the man.~~ the neighbours? well, of a truth they may have been the instruments, but the work has been the work of god himself. and even if it were devils who have brought the things here, it should not prevent you from coming and sitting on my knee, little wife. [_the man's wife seats herself upon his knee, and they proceed to eat; she breaking off little bits of bread, and placing them between his lips, while he feeds her with milk out of the bottle._] ~the man.~~ i believe it is cream, it looks so good. ~his wife.~~ no, it is milk. you must bite your bread more carefully, or you will choke. ~the man.~~ no, no, i shall not. let me have some more of the crust--of that nice brown crust. ~his wife.~~ but i am _sure_ you will choke before you have finished. ~the man.~~ no, no. see how easily i swallow. ~his wife.~~ you are making the milk run down my neck! how dreadfully it tickles! ~the man.~~ then let me lick it up. not a drop of it ought to be wasted. ~his wife.~~ how thrifty you are growing! ~the man.~~ be ready. now, then! quick!--ah, everything good comes to an end too soon. i believe that this bottle must have got a false bottom to it, to make it look deeper. what rascally fellows those bottlemakers are! [_the man lights the cigar, and sinks back in the attitude of a blissfully tired man, while his wife ties her hair with the new riband, and goes to look at herself in the darkness of the window-panes._] ~the man.~~ this cigar must have cost a fortune, it is so mellow and strong. in future i mean always to smoke this brand of cigars. ~his wife.~~ but do you not see how nice i look? ~the man.~~ yes, i see. i see the new riband, and i see, too, that you wish me to kiss your pretty little neck. ~his wife.~~ but i will not allow it, sir. you are getting much too free. puff away at your cigar if you wish, but my neck---~the man.~~ eh what? is it not mine too? devil take me if i do not assert my proprietorship! [_she pretends to dart away, but he pursues and kisses her._] ~the man.~~ there! i have asserted my rights. and now, little wifie, you must dance. imagine this to be a splendid, a supernaturally beautiful palace. ~his wife.~~ very well. i have imagined it. ~the man.~~ and that you are the queen of the ball. ~his wife.~~ i am ready. ~the man.~~ and that counts, marquises, and city magnates keep requesting the honour of your hand, but you persistently refuse them, and choose, instead, a man like--like--oh, a man in a beautiful gala dress, a real live prince. what did you say? ~his wife.~~ that i do not like princes. ~the man.~~ good gracious! whom _do_ you like, then? ~his wife.~~ i like architects of genius. ~the man.~~ very well, then. imagine such a man to have asked you to dance with him (for i suppose you would not care to have the empty air for a partner, would you?). ~his wife.~~ i have imagined him. ~the man.~~ good! imagine, too, a marvellous orchestra, with a turkish drum beating pom, pom, pom. [_he begins to thump the table with his fist_] ~his wife.~~ but, my dearest one, it is only in a _circus_ that they beat a drum like that, to attract the people--not in a palace. ~the man.~~ what a fool i am! very well, then. never mind that part. let us begin again. imagine a fiddle pouring out its soul in melody, and a flute tootling tenderly, and a double-bass droning like a beetle. thus:-[_the man hums a tune as he sits crowned with his chaplet of oak-leaves. the tune is the same as is played during act iii, on the occasion of the grand, ball given by the man. his wife dances to his humming, looking comely and graceful as she does so._] ~the man.~~ ah, my little pet goat! ~his wife.~~ nay, i am' the queen of the ball. [_the tune and the dance grow merrier and merrier, until the man rises to his feet, and dancing lightly where he stands, takes his wife round the waist, and dances with her--his chaplet slipping down to one side as he does so. meanwhile the being in grey looks on imperturbably--the candle in his hand continuing to burn steadily with a clear light._] curtain act iii--the ball given by the man [_a grand ball is in progress in the salon of the mansion which the man has built for himself. the scene is a large, square, lofty room with smooth, white walls and ceiling and a polished floor. yet a certain discrepancy in the proportions of some of the minor features of the apartment conveys to the beholder a sort of vague, unsatisfactory impression, as though something were wanting, or discordant, or superfluous, or bizarre--one cannot exactly tell which. for instance, the doors are small as compared with the windows, and constitute, with the latter, the only features breaking the monotony of the apartment's outline. the windows, too, are of immense size. reaching almost to the ceiling, they are placed only in the rear wall, and in close juxtaposition to one another, while their panes show black with the darkness of the outer night, and neither spot nor speck breaks the wall spaces between them. eloquent testimony to the wealth of the man is afforded by the superabundance of gilding on the cornices, chairs, and picture-frames; yet the pictures are but few in number, and confined to the side walls, of which they form the sole adornment. light is furnished by hoop-shaped lustres and a few scattered electric globes. nevertheless, though the ceiling is in brilliant relief, the rest of the room is in slight shadow--a circumstance which imparts a kind of greyish tinge to the walls. in general, the scene has about it an air of pallor and chill._ [_the ball is in full swing--the music being furnished by an orchestra of three players, each of whom bears a certain resemblance to his instrument. the fiddler has a long, thin neck and a small head ornamented on both sides with little tufts of hair. his body is grotesquely curved in outline, and he has a handkerchief neatly folded on his shoulder, to form a pad for his fiddle. the flute player resembles his flute in that he is exceedingly tall and thin, with long, lean face and taper legs; while the man with the double-bass is short, with broad, rounded shoulders, a fat body, and baggy trousers. all three executants play with an energy which is manifested even in their faces as they grind out the tune and sway their heads and bodies to and fro to the rhythm. the tune in question (which is never once changed throughout the ball) consists of a short, polka-like air, made up of two separate parts, and charged with a sort of vapid, jaunty, staccato lilt. all the instruments are slightly out of tune with one another, and this sometimes causes the discrepancies in pitch and tempo to give rise to an extraordinary series of dissonances and gaps in the melody. the following is the tune:--_ [illustration: 0080] _to these strains a number of young men and girls are dancing a legato measure in a graceful, refined manner. to the first phrase of the tune they advance and meet; to the second phrase they retire; to the third and fourth they advance and retire as before--all with a rather stately, old-fashioned demeanour._ [_along the walls are seated a number of chaperons and other guests, in a variety of studiedly affected attitudes. their movements are stiff and angular, and their remarks stilted and spasmodic. never is the correctness of their tone lowered by, for instance, light laughter or whispering. gazing straight in front of them, with their hands primly folded on their laps and their wrists stuck out so sharply as to convey the impression that those members have been fractured, these onlookers mouth their sentences in the sententious fashion of copybooks, and express, in their whole bearing, a sort of disdainful weariness. indeed, so absolutely monotonous and uniform in expression are their fades that the latter would seem to have been turned out of one and the same mould--a mould which has stamped them with a stereotyped air of conceit and arrogance, coupled with a certain dull respect for the man's wealth. the dancers are dressed in white, the musicians in black, and the remaining guests in white, black, or yellow. in the right-hand front corner of the stage (a corner in deeper shadow than the rest of the scene') stands the motionless figure of the being in grey. the candle in his hand is now burnt away for two-thirds of its length, yet its flame is still strong and yellow, and continues to throw lurid gleams over the statuesque face and chin of the being._] ~dialogue of the guests.~~ i feel it my bounden duty to remark that to be numbered among the guests at any ball given by the man is indeed an honour! yes; and to that you might have added that only a very limited circle of persons are permitted to attain to that honour. my husband, my sons, my daughters, and myself are profoundly sensible of the privilege which has been accorded us. i am truly sorry for those who have not had the good fortune to receive an invitation to the ball. never this night, i fear, will they be able to close their eyes in sleep, by reason of the pangs of envy. yet on the morrow they will not hesitate to speak in disparaging terms of the fêtes which the man periodically gives. ah, but never have they looked upon such brilliancy as we see here to-night! no, never! nor, you might have added, upon such luxury and wealth! nor upon such enchanting, such soul-emancipating gaiety! if this be not gaiety, then i know not what gaiety is. but let that pass. 'tis ill quarrelling with persons who writhe in the pangs of envy. yet i will venture to foretell that those same persons will presumptuously assert that these were not gilded chairs upon which we are now sitting--not gilded chairs! no; mere deteriorated articles, purchased, for a trifling sum, from some secondhand dealer! they will say, too, that those beautiful electric globes were tallow candles of the commonest quality! yes--mere farthing dips! or trashy oil lamps! oh, tongues of envy! peradventure they will have the effrontery to deny that the mansion has gilded cornices? or that to the pictures on the walls there are the massive gilded frames which we see before us? for my part, i seem to hear the veritable chink of gold in this palace. well, at all events we behold its glitter: and that, in my opinion, is as good. seldom has it fallen to my lot to enjoy such ravishing strains as those which always greet our ears at balls given by the man. they constitute the veritable music of the spheres, and waft the soul from earth to higher regions. yes, in truth do they! yet we have some reason to expect that the music should be of the finest quality, seeing that the man is in a position to pay the immense fees demanded by the musicians. you must recollect that this is the most distinguished orchestra of the day, and plays at all the most _recherché_ functions. ah, one could listen to such strains for ever! they simply _enchant_ one's sense of hearing! i may inform you that, for days and nights after one of these balls given by the man, my sons and daughters never cease to hum the tunes which they have heard there. at times i seem to hear such divine music when i am walking in the streets. i gaze around me, but neither instrument nor player is to be seen. and _i_ hear it in my dreams. what appears to me so especially excellent about these musicians is that they play with such _abandon_. though aware of the immense fees which they are entitled to demand for their services, they are yet good enough to refrain from giving nothing in return. that seems to me particularly right and proper. yes. 'tis as though the musicians completely-identified themselves with their instruments, so great is the verve with which they surrender themselves to their playing. or, rather, as though their instruments identified themselves with them. how rich it all is! flow sumptuous! how brilliant! how luxurious! [_and so on, for a considerable time, like a pack of dogs barking one against the other._] i would have you to know that, in addition to this _salon_, the mansion contains no fewer than fifteen magnificent apartments. i have seen them all. the dining-room is fitted with a fireplace which can accommodate whole trunks of trees. the drawing-room, too, and boudoir are simply _gorgeous_, while the state bedroom is not only an apartment of the most gigantic dimensions, but is actually furnished with bedsteads to which baldaquins are attached! indeed? you surprise me! baldaquins? yes, i said _baldaquins_. pray permit me to continue what i was saying. the son of the house lives in a beautiful, bright nursery, lined throughout with yellow wood and gilding, so that the sun seems for ever to be shining there. and the little fellow is so charming! he has curls like the rays of the sun himself. yes, indeed! when one looks upon him one involuntarily exclaims, "the sun has just come out." and when one gazes into his eyes one involuntarily thinks, "ah! now are the chill autumn and winter passed, for there is blue sky to be seen." the man loves the boy to distraction. he has just bought him a pony--a beautiful, pure white pony--to ride on. now, _my_ children---well, as we were saying. have i yet told you of the bathroom? no, you have not. it is a truly marvellous apartment. ah! is it indeed? yes; with hot water always laid on. then there is the man's study, replete with books--endless books. he is said to be immensely clever--and of a truth you could tell that from the number of the books alone. i have seen the gardens. have _you?_ indeed? no, i have not. and i am not ashamed to confess that they simply astounded me. in them i saw the most marvellous lawns--all of an emerald green, and mown with surprising neatness, with little paths intersecting them, lined with the finest of red sand. and the flowers, too! and the palm-trees! _palm-trees?_ yes, i said _palm-trees_. every shrub is pruned into a shape of some kind, such as a pyramid or a column of green foliage. then there is a fountain with huge globes of glass, and, in the centre of the main lawn, a number of plaster gnomes and sirens. how splendid! how brilliant! how luxurious! [_and so on, as before._] the man also did me the honour to show me his coach-houses and stables, until i found myself wholly unable to repress the admiration evoked in me by the spectacle of the horses and carriages which they contained. his motor-car, too, made a great impression upon me. and, to think of it, he has no fewer than _seventeen_ attendants for his person alone, in addition to the general staff of cooks, kitchen-maids, housemaids, gardeners, and so forth! and grooms, surely? yes, and grooms. of course, it is only right and proper that the man and his wife should have everything done for them, seeing that they are personages of such high degree. yes; and for the same reason it is all the more an honour for us to be included among the number of their guests. but do you not find the music just a trifle--well, _monotonous?_ no, i do not, and i am surprised that _you_ should do so. surely you know who the musicians are? yes; i was but jesting. i could listen to such strains for ever. there is something in them which especially appeals to me. and to me also. it is delightful to be able to surrender oneself to their influence, and to become absorbed in dreams of ecstatic bliss. it is not too much to say that they waft one's soul to the very empyrean. how delightful it all is! how splendid! how luxurious! [_and so on, as before._] but i see a movement at that door. probably the man and his wife are making their entry into the _salon_. see how the musicians are redoubling their efforts! there they come! there they come! yes, there they come! there they come! [_the man and his wife appear at a low door on the right, accompanied by the man's friends and enemies. they cross the salon obliquely to a door on the left, walking in solemn procession, and causing the dancers to divide and leave a clear space for them. the musicians play more loudly, and more extravagantly out of tune, than ever._ [_the man looks much older than he did in act ii, and a sprinkling of grey is noticeable in his long hair and beard. yet his face is still handsome and vigorous. he walks with a sort of calm dignity and aloofness, and gazes straight in front of him, as though he were not aware of the presence of the surrounding company. his wife, too, looks older, but still beautiful, as she leans upon his arm. like her husband, she seems to see none of the surrounding company, but gazes in front of her with a strange, half-apprehensive expression. they are both of them magnificently dressed._ [_behind the man and his wife come the man's friends. the latter are uniformly like one another, with aristocratic faces, high, open foreheads, and candid eyes. they move with dignity--expanding their chests, setting down their feet with firmness and assurance, and gazing from side to side with faintly condescending smiles. they wear white buttonholes._ [_following them at a respectful distance come the man's enemies. these also bear a strong general resemblance to one another--their faces being vicious and cunning, their brows low and beetling, and their hands slender and apelike. they move as though ill at ease--jostling one another, hunching their shoulders, hiding behind one another, and throwing sharp, mean, envious glances about them. they wear yellow buttonholes._ [_in this manner the procession moves slowly across the salon, without a word being spoken by any one of its members. the sound of their footsteps, combined with the strains of the musicians and the acclamations of the guests, gives rise to a sort of confused, discordant din._ ~acclamations of the guests.~~ there they are! there they are! what an honour for us! how handsome he is! what a manly face! look, look! yet he does not deign us even a glance! no; although we are his guests! he has not so much as seen us! no matter. this is a great honour for us. and there is his wife! look, look! how lovely she is! but how proud! look at her diamonds, her diamonds! her diamonds, her diamonds! and her pearls, her pearls! and her rubies, her rubies! how splendid! we are indeed honoured! yes, are we not? what an honour, what an honour! [_and so on, and so on._] and there come the man's friends! look, look! what aristocratic faces! and what a haughty bearing! yes, for they reflect his glory. and how attached to him they are! and what true friends to him! what an honour to be one of their number! they look at everything as though it were theirs. yes; they are at home here. what an honour for us! what an honour! [_and so on, and so on._] and there come the man's enemies! look, look! the man's enemies! they crouch like whipped dogs! yes, for the man has tamed them. yes, he has muzzled them. see how they droop their tails between their legs! and how they slink along! and how they jostle one another! booh! booh! [_general laughter._] what vulgar faces! and what greedy looks! what a cowardly bearing! what an envious air! they are afraid to look at us. yes. they know that we have a better right than they to be here. they need frightening a little more. the man will thank us for doing it. booh! booh! [_the guests receive the man's enemies with renewed jeers and laughter, while the enemies crowd nervously upon one another, and throw sharp glances to right and left._] there! they are going now! they are going now! truly an honour of the greatest kind has been done us! yes, they are going now! booh! booh! they have gone! they have gone! [_the procession disappears through a doorway to the left, and the din dies down a little. the music plays less loudly than before, and the dancers spread themselves over the floor again._] where have they gone to? to the great dining-room, i suppose, where supper is to be served. then we may take it that we too will be invited presently? yes. has not a lackey come to summon us? i think it is high time we were sent for. if supper be served much later than this, we shall all of us sleep badly. yes, i assure you i _always_ sup early. a late supper lies so heavily on one's stomach! the music still goes on. yes, and so do the dancers. yet i am surprised that they have not tired of it. how rich it is! how sumptuous! [_and so on, as before._] did you see how many covers were laid for supper? no. i had barely time to begin counting them before the butler entered the room and i had to depart. surely we have not been forgotten? my good madam, please remember that (in his own eyes, at least) the man is a very great personage, and that we are personages of _small_ account. no matter. my husband often asserts that it is _we_ who do _the man_ honour by accepting his invitations--not _the man_ who does _us_ honour by according them. we are rich ourselves, for that matter. and if one should also take into account the reputation of his wife----! has any one seen a footman, sent to summon us to supper? perhaps he is looking for us in one of the other rooms? how rich the man must be! yet wealth may be acquired without dipping one's hands into other people's pockets. hush! only the man's enemies say that. indeed? and do they not comprise among their number men of the highest honour? my husband is one of them. how late it is getting! i think there must have been some misunderstanding here. i can scarcely suppose that we have _purposely_ been forgotten. well, if you cannot suppose that, i must say that your knowledge of life and men is grossly deficient. i am surprised. we ourselves are rich, but---hark! i think i heard some one call us. 'twas only your fancy. _no one_ has called us. i feel it my bounden duty to remark that i cannot conceive how we ever came to permit ourselves to patronize a house which possesses such a dubious reputation. of a surety we ought to pick and choose our acquaintances more carefully. [_enter a footman, who cries aloud: "the man and his wife request the honour of their guests' company at supper." upon this the guests resume their conversation with a sigh of relief._] what a splendid livery! so the man _has_ invited us, after all! i knew it was only a misunderstanding. the man is _so_ goodhearted! in all probability he and his party themselves have not yet sat down to supper. i _told_ you a lackey would be sent to summon us. what a magnificent livery he wore! they say the supper is equally magnificent. oh, nothing is ever badly done in the man's house. what music! what an honour to be one of the guests at a ball given by the man! how persons must envy us who have not been accorded that honour! how rich it all is! how sumptuous! [_repeating these ejaculations over and over again, the guests begin to depart. only one couple of dancers continue dancing; the rest follow the guests in silence. for a little while the last couple continue their diversion; then they hasten to overtake their companions. nevertheless the musicians play with unabated vigour._ [_presently a footman enters, and extinguishes all the lights save the furthest lustre. for a few moments afterwards the forms of the musicians are still distinguishable through the gloom as they sway themselves and their instruments to the music; but eventually nothing remains visible save the tall figure of the being in grey. the flame of the candle in his hand is now flickering heavily, yet its light remains strong and yellow, and throws the strong face and chin of the being into sharp relief. presently, without raising his head, he makes a slight turn towards the audience. then, lit up by the glare of the candle's rays, he crosses the salon with slow and soundless footsteps, and disappears through the doorway by which the guests and the dancers have made their exit._] curtain act iv--ruin and bereavement [_the scene is a large, square room of poverty-stricken, dilapidated appearance, with walls, floor, and ceiling dark in colour, and the back wall broken only by two lofty, curtainless windows through which the outer night shows darkly. between the windows is a door leading out into the garden. the general effect of the room gives the beholder the impression that, however brilliantly it were lighted, the great, dark expanses of window-pane would still absorb the major portion of the light. to the left is a second door, giving entry to other portions of the man's mansion. near this second door there stands a sofa, upholstered in coarse horsehair, while beneath one of the windows there can be seen the man's working-table--a perfectly plain piece of furniture. upon it are mingled in careless confusion a dimly burning candle, a shaded lamp, a faded sketch-plan, and three child's toys--namely, a small pasteboard helmet, a wooden horse without a tail, and a red-nosed clown doll, holding cymbals in its hands. to the right is an old bookcase--empty, and almost falling to pieces, but showing, by the lines left in the dust with which its shelves are covered, that the books which it formerly contained have not long been removed. the room contains a single chair._ [_in one corner, darker than the rest of the scene, there stands the being in grey. the candle in his hand is now reduced to a stump, and even from this the wax is fast running down as it burns with a red, unsteady light and throws gleams of a ruddy hue over the stony face and chin of the being._ [_seated on the solitary chair which the room contains, and talking to herself, is discovered an old woman--the last remaining servant of the man._] ~the old woman.~~ so once again the man has sunk to poverty! once upon a time he had many valuable possessions--horses, carriages, even a motor-car; but now he has nothing at all. of his many servants i am the only one left. true, this room and two others still contain an odd piece or two of furniture, but in the other fifteen apartments there is nothing whatever; they stand dark and empty, and day and night the rats scamper and squeak in them. _some_ people might be afraid of the rats, but i am not. nothing matters much to me. for a long while now there has been a notice-board hanging on the entrance-gates, to say that the mansion is for sale; but no one seems to care to be a purchaser. the board has grown rusty with the rain, and the letters on it are fast being washed out, but no customer ever appears. _who_ would want to buy a house in such repair? still, some day some one _might_ do so, and then we shall be turned out of doors, i suppose, and have to seek another place in which to lay our heads. at first it will seem strange to us, but we shall soon get used to it. sometimes my mistress weeps, and my master too, but _i_ never weep. nothing matters much to me. are you wondering what has become of all the man's wealth? nay, i do not know. sometimes i too wonder, but i have lived a long life in service, and have seen more than one great fortune slip away into chinks and clefts, and vanish quietly. so it has been with my master and mistress. at first they had much, then little, then nothing at all. once upon a time patrons and customers used to come and give my master commissions. now they have ceased to come. that is all. one day i asked my mistress why things were so, and she replied: "what used to be fashionable is not so now. people no longer care for the styles in architecture which they used to affect." "but what has made the fashions change?" said i. she made no answer, but burst into tears. _i_ shed no tears. nothing matters much to me, nothing matters much to me. so long as they pay me my wages i shall stop with them, and as soon as they cease paying those wages i shall go and take service elsewhere. for many years i have done their cooking for them, but i should leave them at once, and go and cook for some one else, if my wages were to cease. in any case i shall soon have to give up working, for i am growing old, and my sight is not what it was. some day, perhaps, i shall be dismissed--yes, told to go about my business and make room for some one else. ah, well, what will it matter? i shall just go--that is all. nothing matters much to me. sometimes people are surprised at me. "it must be lonely for you," they say, "in that kitchen--alone every evening while the wind howls in the chimney, and the rats scamper and squeak." i do not know. perhaps it _is_ lonely, only i never think of it. why should i? my master and mistress sit alone, the same as i do, and look at one another, and listen to the wind; and i sit in my kitchen and listen to the wind also. once upon a time young folks used to come and visit my master's little son; and then there would be such singing and laughter and scampering about the empty rooms to scare the rats! yet no one ever came to see _me_. no, i sat alone as i am sitting now--alone, quite alone: and since i have no one to talk to i talk to myself. nothing matters much to me. three days ago yet another misfortune came upon this house. the young master brushed his hair, and cocked his hat as young gentlemen will do, and went out for a walk. and some rascally villain picked up a stone, and threw it at him, and split the boy's head like a cocoa-nut. well, he was lifted up, and brought home, and now lies upon his bed--though whether to live or to die the good god alone knows. my old master and mistress wept so bitterly over him! then they took all the books out of that bookcase yonder, and piled them upon a cart, and sent them away to be sold: and with the money they have hired a nurse, and bought medicines and grapes for the boy. but he will not touch the grapes, nor look at them, and they lie unheeded on a plate by his bedside. [_enter a doctor, looking worried and fatigued._] ~the doctor.~~ old woman, can you tell me if i have come to the right house? i am a doctor with a large practice, and many patients to visit, so that i sometimes make mistakes. first i am called to one house, and then to another--only to find that the first house is empty, and the second one inhabited by a colony of idiots! have i come to the right place _this_ time? ~the old woman.~~ i do not know. ~the doctor.~~ well, i will consult my memorandum-book. have you a child with the croup and a sore throat? ~the old woman.~~ no. ~the doctor.~~ then have you a man with a broken leg? ~the old woman.~~ no. ~the doctor.~~ or a man who has gone out of his mind and attacked his wife and children with a hatchet--four patients in all? ~the old woman.~~ no.. ~the doctor.~~ then have you a young girl with palpitation of the heart? do not lie to me, old woman, for i am almost sure that this is where i was to attend her. ~the old woman.~~ no. ~the doctor.~~ no? well, i believe you, for you speak with such conviction. let me look in my book again. have you a young gentleman who has had his head broken with a stone, and now lies at death's door? ~the old woman.~~ yes. step through that door on the left, and mind the rats don't eat you. ~the doctor.~~ very well, i will attend the young gentleman. oh dear, oh dear! i am for ever being sent for, for ever being sent for--day and night alike! this time it is night, and though the street lamps have long ago been put out, i have to trot away all the same. thus i often make mistakes, old woman. [_exit through the door on the left._ ~the old woman.~~ already one doctor has been to attend the boy, without doing him any good, and now here comes another one--to do him about as little, i reckon. well, what of that? the boy will die, and we shall go on living without him--that is all. i shall go on sitting in my kitchen as before, without a soul to keep me company, and think; and one room the more will be left empty for the rats to scamper and squeak in. well, _let_ them scamper, and _let_ them squeak: it is all one to me. do you want to know why that ruffian flung the stone at the young master's head? nay, i do not know. how should i know why men want to kill one another? all i know is that a man threw a stone, and then hid himself in a dark corner, and that a boy was struck by that stone, and now lies a-dying. they say that the young master was good and kind to poor people. maybe. i do not know. it is all one to me. kind or cruel, old or young, alive or dead--folk are all one to me. so long as i am paid my wages i shall stop where i am; and when those wages cease i shall move elsewhere and cook for some one else, or, maybe, give up working altogether, for i am growing old, and sometimes mistake salt for sugar. or perhaps i shall be discharged, and told to go about my business, so that they may get another cook in my place. well, what of that? i shall just go--that is all. every place is the same to me--here, there, or anywhere; every place is the same to me. [_re-enter the doctor, accompanied by the man and his wife. both the latter are now grown old and grey. yet, though the man walks with his body slightly bent, he holds his head (to which his shaggy, upstanding hair and long beard impart something of a leonine appearance) erect. likewise, though he has to don a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles whenever he wishes to observe an object closely, his glance still flashes keenly and directly from under his grey eyebrows._] ~the doctor.~~ your son has fallen into a deep sleep, and you must not wake him. perhaps it is the best sign at present. but you yourselves ought to take some rest. people who have time to sleep should _use_ it, and not waste the precious hours of the night in walking about and talking, as _i_ have to do. ~the man's wife.~~ we thank you, doctor. you have greatly reassured us. are you coming again to-morrow? ~the doctor.~~ yes, and the next day as well. (_to the old woman_) you too ought to be in bed. every one ought to be in bed at this time of night. is that my way out--through that door there? i so often make mistakes! [_exit with the old woman._ ~the man.~~ (_taking up the sketch-plan from his worktable._) look at this, my wife. it is something which i had begun upon just before our boy's accident happened. i remember stopping in the middle of that line and thinking, "i will take a little rest now, and continue it later." see how simple and easy that line was to draw! yet how strange to look upon it and think, "perhaps this may prove to have been the last line which i drew while our boy was yet alive!" with what an unconscious air of ill-omen do its very straightness and simplicity seem charged! ~his wife.~~ nay; do not fret yourself, my darling, but chase away these despondent thoughts from you. i feel sure now that the doctor spoke truth--that our boy, will recover. ~the man.~~ ah, but are not _you_ fretting a little, my dear one? look at yourself in the mirror, and you will see that your face is as white as your hair, my poor old comrade. ~his wife.~~ oh, perhaps i _am_ worrying a little; but, none the less, i feel _sure_ that our boy will recover. ~the man.~~ ah, how you hearten my spirits, as always you have done! how you charm away my sorrows with your sincerity and goodness! o little armour-bearer, the never-failing keeper of my faltering sword, thy old knight is in pitiful case now--his trembling hand can scarce hold his weapon. but what see i here? my son's old toys! who put them there? ~his wife.~~ my dear one, you forget. you yourself put them there, long ago; for you said that you could work better if those innocent, childish toys lay beside you. ~the man.~~ yes, yes, i was forgetting. yet i lean scarcely bear to look upon them now; even as a condemned criminal cannot bear to look upon the instruments of torture and death. when a son is dying his toys become things of horror to the father who is to be left behind. wife, wife, i cannot bear to see them! ~his wife.~~ ah, it was in the far-off, early days when we were poor--as poor as we are now--that we bought them for him. i too feel hurt to see them there--poor darling little toys! ~the man.~~ i cannot help it; i must take them in my hands once more. here is the little horse without a tail. "gee up, gee up, little horse! where are you galloping to?" "oh, a long way off, papa--a long way off, to where there are fields and forests of green." "will you take me with you on your little horse?" "oh yes, oh yes, papa! climb on to his back, dearest papa!-------" and here is the little pasteboard helmet which i tried on my own head the day that we bought it in the shop and made so merry over it. "who are you?" "i am a knight, papa--the most powerful, daring knight." "and where are you going to, little knight?" "to slay a dragon, dear papa, and to set his prisoners free." "go then, go then, little knight--------" [_the man's wife bursts into tears._] and here, too, is our old friend, the clown doll, with his dear, silly face. but how ragged he looks now!--as though he had been through a hundred fights! yet he is as red-nosed and smiling as ever. now, sound your cymbals, my little friend, as you were used to do. you cannot, eh? you say that you cannot?--that you have only one cymbal left? very well, then. down upon the floor you go! [_he throws down the doll._] ~his wife.~~ oh, what are you doing? remember how often our boy has kissed its merry face. ~the man.~~ yes, i did wrong. forgive me, my dear. and do you too pardon me, my little friend of old times. [_he stoops with some difficulty and picks up the doll._] so thou art still smiling? ah well, i will lay thee aside awhile. be not angry with me, but i cannot bear thy smiles just now--thou must go and smile elsewhere. ~his wife.~~ oh, how your words rend my heart i believe me, our son will yet recover. how could it be right that youth should go to the grave before old age? ~the man.~~ and how often have you known the "right" to happen, my wife? ~his wife.~~ nay, nay; speak not so, my old comrade, but, rather, let us go upon our knees and say a prayer to god. ~the man.~~ methinks it would be difficult for my old knees to bend now. ~his wife.~~ yet _try_ to bend them, dearest one. it is our duty. ~the man.~~ think you, then, that god would heed one who has never yet troubled his ear with prayer or praise? do _you_ pray: you are the mother. ~his wife.~~ nay, but do you also: you are the father. if a father will not pray for his son, who else shall do it--to whom else shall it be left? and would my prayer alone avail as much as yours and mine together? ~the man.~~ be it so, then; and perhaps the everlasting goodness will yet hold his hand when he sees an aged couple on their knees. [_they kneel down, with their faces towards the corner where stands the being in grey, and clasp their hands in an attitude of prayer._] ~prayer of the mother.~~ o god, i beseech thee to spare the life of our son. one thing, one thing only, can my tongue find to say unto thee: spare us our son, o god! spare us our son! nought but this can i ask of thee, for all around me is dark--all around me is slipping beneath my feet, so that i am utterly bewildered and astray. in the agony of my soul i beseech thee, o god--again, and yet again--to spare us our son, to spare us our son. forgive me this poor prayer of mine, but indeed i can do no better. thou thyself knowest that i can do no better. look down upon me, look down upon me! dost thou not see my trembling head, my trembling hands--ah, my trembling hands, o god? have mercy, then, upon our child. he is yet so young that the birthmark is not faded from his right hand. suffer him, then, i beseech thee, to live a little longer--just a little longer--just a little longer. have mercy upon him, have mercy upon him! [_she breaks off into silent weeping, and covers her face with her hands. the man does not glance at her, but gives utterance, in his turn, to the following prayer._] ~prayer of the father.~~ o god, dost thou see me praying to thee? dost thou see that i have bent my aged knees, and am crouching in the dust--that i am kissing the very earth in token of my supplication? perchance at times i have offended thee? if that be so, yet grant me thy forgiveness. perchance at times i have been insolent and presuming--i have blamed thee for my misfortunes--i have demanded when i should have asked? yet now, i pray thee, forgive me these things. punish me if thou wilt--punish me howsoever thou pleasest: only spare us the life of our son. yea, spare him, i beseech thee. i do not ask this of thy mercy, nor of thy pity, but of thy _justice_: for thou art old in years, as even am i, and wouldst the better comprehend me for that. evil men have tried to kill our son--cruel, pitiless men who lurked in dark places and cast stones at him. yea, they lurked in dark places, and cast stones at him, the cowardly villains! yet suffer them not to have achieved their evil purpose, seeing that they are men who do offend thee with their misdeeds, and pollute thy earth with their abominations. staunch thou, rather, the blood of our beloved son, and preserve to us his life. when thou didst take away from me my riches, did i beseech and importune thee to give me back my possessions, my friends, my fame, my talents? did i, o god? no, never did i. i asked not even that my talents should be restored to me; and thou thyself knowest that a man's talents are more to him than life itself. perchance, thought i, these things must be; so i bore them--bore them ever without complaining. yet now i beseech thee--here on my knees, and kissing the very dust of earth before thee--that thou wilt restore to us our little son. yea, i kiss the very earth in token of my supplication. [_the man and his wife rise to their feet again. the being in grey has listened to these prayers without making any sign._] ~the man's wife.~~ my dearest one, i cannot help fearing that your prayer was not sufficiently humble in tone. methought there was too much of the note of pride in it. ~the man.~~ no, no, my wife. i did but speak him fair, as man would speak to man. surely he cannot prefer flatterers to open, self-respecting men who speak the truth? no, wife; you do not understand him. i feel quite confident again now, and my mind is at ease--it is even cheerful. i feel that i can still do a little to help our son, and the thought gives me comfort. go now, and see if he is asleep. he ought to have a good, sound sleep. [the man's wife leaves the room, and the man seems to throw a glance as of gratitude towards the being in grey; after which he takes up the doll again, and begins to play with it, and to kiss its long red nose. presently his wife returns.] ~the man.~~ (_with cheerful animation_). yes, i feel sure now that i am' forgiven for my late insult to this little friend of mine. and how is our dear boy? ~his wife.~~ he looks so dreadfully pale! ~the man.~~ oh, that is nothing. that will soon pass away. you must remember that he has lost so much blood. ~his wife.~~ yet it hurts me to see his poor, pale face and close-cropped head. he used to have such beautiful curls! ~the man.~~ yes, i know, but the doctor was obliged to cut them off to dress the wound. but never mind, my wife; they will soon grow again, more beautiful than ever. did you save the curls when they were cut off? they ought certainly to have been saved, for there was his dear blood upon them'. ~his wife.~~ yes, my beloved one; and i stored them in this casket here--the only, thing of value which we have left. ~the man.~~ then you did rightly. we have no cause to fret about our vanished riches, for the boy; will soon be grown up, and able to go and work for us all. yes, he will soon recover for us what we have lost. i feel quite cheerful again, my wife--quite confident about the future. do you remember our poor old room with the pink walls, and how the good neighbours brought us sprigs of oak and birch, and how you made a chaplet of leaves for my head, and swore that i was a genius? ~his wife.~~ yes; and i swear it now, my darling. others may have ceased to, appreciate you, but not i. ~the man.~~ yet you are mistaken, little wife. if i were _really_ a genius my creations would have outlived this poor old relic which they call my body: yet _i_ am still alive, whereas my creations---~his wife.~~ no, no! they have not perished, nor will they ever. think of that great mansion at the corner of the street--the one which you designed ten years ago. i know well that you go to look at it every evening when the sun is setting. and, indeed, is there in all the world a more beautiful, a more stately mansion? ~the man.~~ yes, of set purpose i built it in such a way that the beams of the setting sun may fall upon it and make its windows flash. when all the rest of the city is in twilight my house is still bidding farewell to the sun. yes, 'twas a fine piece of work; and perchance--who knows?--it will outlive me a little while. ~his wife.~~ of _course_ it will, my darling! ~the man.~~ one thing, and one thing only, grieves me concerning that masterpiece of mine: and that is that people should so soon have forgotten its designer. they might have remembered him a _little_ longer, just a _little_ longer. ~his wife.~~ oh, in time people forget every one, just as they cease to care for fashions which they once adored. ~the man.~~ yet they might have remembered me just a little longer, just a little longer. ~his wife.~~ one day i saw a young artist gazing at that mansion. he was studying; it carefully, and sketching it in a notebook. ~the man.~~ oh, you should have told me of that before, dear wife! it means a great deal, a very great deal. it means that my design will be handed down to future generations, and that, even if my personality be forgotten, my _work_ will live. yes, it means a great deal, a very great deal. ~his wife.~~ ah! so you see that you are _not_ forgotten, my darling! think, too, of the young man who saluted you so respectfully in the street the other day. ~the man.~~ yes, that is true, my wife. he was a nice-looking young man--a very nice-looking young man, and had such a distinguished face. i am glad to have been reminded of his bow that day. well, i am almost bowing myself now; yes, bowing to sleep, for i am quite worn out. yes, i am growing old, my little greyheaded wife. do you not notice it? ~his wife.~~ no, you are as handsome as ever. ~the man.~~ but are not my eyes just a little less bright than they used to be? ~his wife.~~ no. they flash as brilliantly as ever they did. ~the man.~~ and my hair--is it as jet-black as before? ~his wife.~~ no; but it is so snowily white that it looks even more beautiful. ~the man~~ and have i no wrinkles? ~his wife.~~ oh, perhaps a _little_ one or two, but---~the man.~~ oh yes, i know! i am a perfect adonis. i will buy a uniform to-morrow, and take service in the light cavalry. will that do, eh? [_his wife bursts out laughing._] ~his wife.~~ ah, now you are joking, just as you used to do. but lie down here, my darling, and take some sleep, while i go and sit by our boy. you may rest easy, for i shall not leave him, and when he wakes i will call you.--you will not mind kissing an old wrinkled hand, will you? ~the man.~~ silence, silence! you are still the most beautiful woman that i have ever seen. ~his wife.~~ but are there no wrinkles on my face? ~the man.~~ wrinkles? what wrinkles? i see only a beautiful, dear, kind, clever face--beyond that, nothing. you will not be angry with me for chiding you thus? now go to our boy, and watch over him; spreading around his bed the calm halo of your love and tenderness. and if he should be restless in his sleep, sing to him a little lullaby, as you were wont to do, and place the grapes near his bedside, so that he may be able to reach them with his hand when he awakes. [_exit the man's wife, while the man lies down upon the couch with his head at the end which is nearest to the corner occupied by the motionless figure of the being in grey: so near, indeed, that the hand of the being seems almost to be resting upon the man's grey, dishevelled locks. in a moment the man is asleep._] ~the being in grey.~~ thus in sound and happy slumber sleeps the man--buoyed up with fond, delusive hopes. his breathing is as calm as that of a little child, and his aged heart beats evenly and quietly as he rests. he knows not that within a few seconds his son will have passed away for ever into the infinite. yet even as the man lies there the shadowy mists of sleep are presenting to his vision a dream of happiness which shall never be. he dreams that he is with his son, and that together they are gliding in a fair white boat down a broad and peaceful river. it seems to him that it is a beautiful day in summer, and that he is gazing upon pure blue sky and water clear as crystal. he can hear the rustling of the reeds as they part before the boat, and in his heart he is joyous and hopeful. for all his senses are deceiving the man. yet suddenly he grows uneasy. some strange fancy has pierced the mists of sleep and seared his soul. "why have thy golden locks been shorn, my boy? why have they done that?" "my head was hurting me, papa. that is why they have shorn my locks." and once again, in his fond delusion, the man feels happy as he gazes at the blue sky and listens to the rustling of the reeds as they part before the boat. no; he knows not that at this moment his son is dying. he knows not that his beloved child is calling to him with a last voiceless cry of the soul as, in the throes of delirium, the boy's childish instinct turns once more to its belief in the superior strength of his elders. "papa, papa! i am dying! save me, papa!" no; the man sleeps on, in sound and happy slumber, while secret, fleeting dreams continue to present to his vision a dream of happiness which shall never be. awake, man, awake! thy son is--_dead!_ [_the man lifts his head with a frightened gesturey and rises to his feet._] ~the man.~~ i feel a sort of fear upon me. i thought i heard some one call. [_almost at the same moment the sound of female voices in lamentation is heard behind the scenes, and the man's wife enters, looking as white as a sheet._] ~the man.~~ our--our son? is--is he dead? ~his wife.~~ yes--he is _dead!_ ~the man.~~ did he call-to me just now? ~his wife.~~ no; he never returned to consciousness; he never recognized any one. yes, he is dead--our son, our darling son! [_she falls to the ground before the man, sobbing violently, and clasping him round the knees. the man lays his hand protectingly upon her head as he turns towards the being in grey and exclaims in a choking voice:_] villain! thou hast wounded a woman, and thou hast killed a child! [_his wife still continues sobbing, while the man silently strokes her head with a trembling hand._] ~the man.~~ do not weep, my darling; do not weep. life only laughs at our tears, even as it has laughed at our prayers. [_then, turning once more towards the being in grey, he exclaims:_] and for _thee_--fate, life, god, or devil, whatsoever be thy name--i hereby curse thee! [_as the man delivers the following curse he stands with one arm outstretched, as though shielding his wife from danger, while the other arm he extends menacingly towards the being in grey._] ~the man's curse.~~ hereby i curse thee, and all that thou hast given me! i curse the day whereon i was born, and the day whereon i shall die! i curse my whole life, its joys and its sorrows! i curse myself, my ears, my eyes, my heart, my tongue, my head! all those things which thou hast given me i fling back in thy face, thou fate, thou demon! cursed be thou--aye, cursed for ever! yet with this very curse will i vanquish thee at the last. for, in truth, what more canst thou do unto me? strike me, if thou wilt--aye, strike me to the ground: i will yet laugh aloud in thy face, and cry, "my curse be upon thee, my curse be upon thee!" or fill my mouth full with the creeping worms of death: i will yet with my last breath gasp into thy obscene ears, "my curse be upon thee, my curse be upon thee!" seize thou my carcase, gnaw it like a dog, worry, it in the outer darkness of hell: what though my soul have left it and be fled to other regions, i will yet repeat, again and again, "my curse be upon thee, my curse be upon thee!" aye! by the head of this woman whom thou hast wounded, and by the body of this child whom thou hast slain, i curse thee, i curse thee--aye, i, the man! [_for a little while he remains standing in silence, his arm raised in a menacing attitude. during the pronouncement of the curse the being in grey has made no sign. only, the flame of the candle has flickered as with a breath of wind. thus they stand facing one another--the man and the being in grey; until gradually the sounds of lamentation behind the scenes grow louder, and merge into a concerted threnody as the curtain falls._] curtain act v--the death of the man [_when the curtain rises the stage is discovered wrapped in a vague, dim, flickering light--the sort of light which makes it difficult to distinguish objects at the first glance. gradually, however, as the eye grows accustomed to the gloom, the following picture begins to stand out from the obscurity._ [_the scene is a large, low hall or cellar, to which there are neither doors nor windows, but which is entered by a ladder leading down from a trapdoor in the ceiling. the walls are bare of ornamentation, and so thickly encrusted with dirt that almost they seem to be covered with leather made out of the hide of some gigantic wild beast. along the back wall runs a rudely constructed drinking-bar, containing rows of bottles filled with variously-coloured liquids; and in front of this bar the proprietor of the den is seated on a low stool, with his hands clasped over his stomach. his face is pale, save for a pair of brilliantly red cheeks, and his head bald, while his neck and chin are covered with a large tawny beard. his whole expression denotes absolute lethargy and indifference, and he retains this attitude unchanged throughout the entire act--never at any time making the least modification in his posture._ [_at a number of small tables persons of both sexes are seated drinking--the apparent number of these individuals being increased by the fantastic shadows which dart hither and thither over the walls and ceiling of the room. all have faces both horrible and repulsive, but in such infinite variety of ugliness that they resemble, rather, an assortment of hideous masks. likewise, the majority of them have one or more features either grotesquely exaggerated or wholly absent, such, for instance, as a gigantic nose or no nose at all, eyes wildly protruding or shrunk to imperceptible slits, a throat horribly goitred or a chin receding to the point of deformity. also, most of them have coarse, matted hair which covers the greater portion of their faces. yet, despite this bizarre variety of feature, there is a marked similarity in the general appearance of these creatures--a similarity which finds its most distinctive characteristic in the greenish, corpselike hue with which their faces are overlaid, no matter whether the face be rudely jocular or convulsed with semi-maniacal fear and horror. as for the bodies of the drunkards, they are clad in the most miserable of rags, of a uniformly dull, monotonous colour, and disclosing here a livid, bony hand or knee, and there a deformed or concave chest. indeed, some of the wretches are almost naked, whilst the women are indistinguishable from the men, save for the fact that they are, if anything, the more uncouth. men and women alike have tremulous hands and heads, and whenever a drunkard rises to walk about, he or she moves as though treading upon an exceedingly slippery, uneven, or unstable surface. finally, the same timbre of voice--a sort of harsh and grating croak--is common to all, and they mouth their words as haltingly as they walk, with lips which seem frozen._ [_at a table a little apart from the rest there sits the man. his white, dishevelled head is bowed upon his arms, and he maintains this attitude unchanged until the moment, towards the close of the act, when he rises and speaks for the last time. like the drunkards, he is very poorly clad._ [_in another corner of the room there stands the motionless figure of the being in grey. in the beings hand a fast-expiring candle (its flame now grown thin and blue) is flickering heavily, as at one moment it droops downwards over the edge of the candlestick, and at another darts upwards into a fine point as it casts gleams of a lurid, deathlike hue over the statuesque face and chin of the being._] ~dialogue of the drunkards.~~ o my god, my god! see how the room is heaving about! i can scarcely keep an eye fixed upon anything at all! it is shivering as though with ague--ceiling, tables, floor, and walls! it is as though we were at sea! hark! do you hear that strange sound--a sound as of iron wheels being rattled, or of great stones rolling down a hillside--showers of stones as thick as raindrops? pooh! that sound is in your own ears. 'tis the blood makes it. my blood too is playing me strange pranks, for it has turned all thick and black, and smells of _vodka_. it will scarce pass through the veins now, and when it draws near to the heart it dams itself up, and refuses to flow at all. i can see lightning flashing, lightning flashing! and i can see great funeral-piles, with men burning on them! i can smell the horrid smell of their roasting flesh i i can see black shadows dancing round them! hi, shadows! let me come and dance with you awhile! o my god, my god! i must have another dram. who will join me? no one? then a curse upon you all! i will drink alone. see! a lovely woman is kissing me on the lips! she smells of musk, and her teeth are like a crocodile's i ugh! she will bite me, she will bite me! away, harridan! i am no harridan. i am only an old serpent with young, and have been watching little serpents crawl out of my womb this hour past, or more. see the little devils, how they wriggle about! hi, you! do not you dare to tread upon my serpent brood! where are you off to? who is that going away? sit down again. you make the whole room shake with your tread. no, i dare not stay; i dare not sit down again. nor i. when i sit down i feel the horrors coming over me. over me too. let me pass, i say! [_a number of the drunkards rise, and go surging towards the entrance-ladder--overturning some of the tables during their staggering progress._] see what that monster is doing! for two hours past it has been trying to climb on to my lap, only it cannot succeed. i keep driving it away, yet it always returns. at what sort of a game is it playing? i feel as though a swarm of cockroaches were buzzing about, and nesting in my skull. and i as though my skull were splitting in two--as though the very brains were coming out of it. they must have turned all maggoty, those brains, for they smell like mouldy cheese. or, rather, like carrion. o my god, my god! to-night i am going to creep up to her on my hands and knees, and slit her throat for her. yes, her blood shall flow to-night; that nice red blood of hers shall soon be streaming down her breast. three men keep following me about everywhere. some day they mean to catch me alone in some dark, lonely spot, and murder me. at this very moment they are waiting for me outside. what sort of a creature is it keeps walking about over the walls and ceiling? o my god! they have come in! they are after me! who are? those three men! i cannot move hand or foot! whatever shall i do? whatever shall i do? see! my clothes are slipping off me! soon i shall be turned inside out--and a fine sight i shall look then! help, some one! help! a monster is after me! it is seizing me by the hand! help! help! what is it? god be with us! 'tis a! monstrous spider! help! help! [_for a few moments some of the drunkards continue reiterating these cries for help._] oh, we are drunk; that is all. go and call down the rest of the town. it is so cold and miserable up there. no, no; i dare not ascend into the street. if i were to do so i should find _her_ waiting for me, and raging like a wild beast. she would kill me, to a certainty. well, there are enough of us here already, so let us have some more liquor, and be merry. no, no! it only gives me the horrors. i have been shaking with them this many an hour past. better the horrors than real life. who would want to be sober, and to go back to real life? not i! nor i! i would rather stay down here. no, i have no wish to go back to life. nor has any one else. o my god, my god! why does the man come here? he drinks little, but he sits much. _we_ don't want his company. no, indeed! let him go home, since he has a home to go to. 'tis a home with sixteen rooms in it! yes, but they are empty now. only the rats scamper and squeak in them. but he has a wife? no, she is dead. [_throughout this dialogue the old women seen in act i have, one by one, been entering the drinking den. clad in the same weird garments as before, they seat themselves silently in places vacated by departing revellers. likewise they continue to enter during the dialogue which follows. neither their entry nor the fact of their interjecting scattered remarks into the general conversation seems to excite surprise among the company present, nor even to be noticed._] ~mingled dialogue of drunkards and old women.~~ the man is near his end now. he can scarce stand for very weakness. do you know, he has a mansion with sixteen rooms in it! sixteen rooms! listen to the beating of his heart, how irregular and feeble it is! soon it will have stopped for ever. hi, man! invite us to your mansion, since there are sixteen rooms in it. yes, that heart will soon have stopped for ever. it is an old, weak, diseased heart now. he has gone to sleep, the drunken fool! this is a strange place to sleep in, but he seems able to do it. he might die in his sleep. wake him up, some one. hi, man! wake up i think how that heart used to beat when it was young and strong. [_the old women chuckle,_] who says more liquor? by the way, there seems to be a larger company present now. what do you mean? i see only the same company as before. i am going up into the street to raise the alarm! i have been robbed! i am nearly naked i see how my green skin is showing through! well, go; and good luck to you! do you remember the night when the man was born? i think you were present on that occasion? i am dying, i am dying! o my god! who will carry me to the grave, or lay me in it? my corpse will be left to cumber the streets like a dog's, to be trodden upon by passers-by, to be ridden over and crushed! o my god, my god! do you remember the relations saying, "let us congratulate you, dear kinsman, on the birth of a son"? i am certain you are wrong when you say that the circle can be squared. i will prove to you how absurd it is. well, you may be right. o my god, my god! only an ignoramus in geometry would make such an assertion. i do not admit it--do you hear? i do not admit it. do you remember how the man's wife looked, in her poor pink dress and shabby hair-riband? yes; and the flowers, too--the may lilies with the dew not dry upon them, the violets, and the grasses? "do not touch them, dear: children; do not touch the flowers." [_the old yeomen chuckle._] o my god, my god! [_by this time the drunkards have all departed, and their places been taken by the old women. the light has been growing steadily fainter, until only the form of the being in grey and the white, drooping head of the man stand out clearly under shafts of light fatting upon them from above._] ~dialogue of the old women alone.~~ good evening to you! and to you! what a glorious night it is! we are all here, are we not? how are _you?_ i have caught a little cold, i think. [_the old women chuckle._] this time we shall not have very long to wait. death and the man have nearly met. see the candle! see its thin, blue, ragged flame! it has almost no wax now--only wick. yes; but it seems reluctant to go out? well? are not _all_ candles reluctant to go out? come, come! no quarrelling, no quarrelling! whether the candle chooses to go out or not, the man's time is fast ebbing away. do you remember his motor-car? once it nearly ran me down. and his mansion, too, with the sixteen rooms in it? yes. i was in them a short while ago. the rats nearly devoured me, and the draughts nearly blew me away, for some one had stolen the window-frames from their sockets, and the wind was tearing through the rooms. and you had a snooze on the very bed on which his wife died, did you not? oh, you sentimental old thing! i did. but i must confess that some queer thoughts passed through my mind as i wandered through those rooms. there used to be such a charming nursery in the mansion, and i felt hurt to see that its windows were all shattered, and that the wind was blowing the dust in clouds over the floor. and there used to be such a lovely little cradle in the room! now the rats are making _their_ nests in that nursery, and rocking _their_ children to sleep in that cradle. oh the dear little naked rat-children! [_the old women chuckle._] and on a table in the study, i saw some broken toys--a little horse without a tail, a pasteboard helmet, and a red-nosed clown doll. i played with them each in turn, and tried on the helmet. it would have suited me well enough if it had only been a trifle less mouldy and covered with dust. and surely you paid a visit to the grand _salon_ where the ball was given that night? what a gay scene it was! yes, i went in there too. but judge of my surprise when i found it in darkness, with the windows broken, and the wind whistling round the cornices! ah! that would serve as music. yes, of course. and the walls were all lined with guests--with guests sitting there in the darkness! you should have seen how queer they looked! we can imagine it. and you should have heard them ejaculating with their old wheedling lips, "how rich it all is! how sumptuous!" oh, you are joking! yes, i am only joking. you know my playful disposition. how "rich" indeed, how "sumptuous," everything must have looked when you went in! man, do you remember the tune that played at your ball? ah! he is near his death now. do you remember how the dancers surrounded you, and how tenderly, how bewitchingly, the music played? it played like this. [_the old women form a semicircle around the man, and begin softly to hum the tune which was played at his ball._] let us have a ball ourselves. it is so long since, i had a dance! very well. "imagine this to be a palace--a supernaturally beautiful palace." first of all we must call the musicians. one cannot have a proper ball without music. the musicians? yes, certainly. do you not remember them? [_the old women give a shrill cry, and instantly there are seen coming down the ladder the same three musicians who played at the man's ball. the fiddler folds a handkerchief on his shoulder, to form a pad for his fiddle, and they begin to play with extraordinary energy. yet the music is soft and low, as in a dream._] now we can have our ball! "how rich it all is!" "how sumptuous!" "how brilliant!" do you remember it, man? [_softly humming to the music, the old women begin to circle round the man--mouthing with their lips, and making, a horrible travesty of the movements of the white-robed dancers who danced at the man's ball. to the first phrase of the tune they whirl themselves round; to the second they converge and retire; to the third and fourth they whirl themselves round in their places--stepping softly, and on tiptoe, as, at intervals, they whisper, in the man's ear:_] do you remember it, man? you are going to die soon, but do you remember it? do you remember it? do you remember it? you are going to die soon, but do you remember it? [_the dance becomes swifter, the motions more abandoned, and strange, wailing notes begin to make themselves heard in the voices of the old women as they hum the tune, and reiterations of weird laughter to run softly round the circle like a ripple. each time that the dancers pass before the man they shoot into his ear such whispered ejaculations as:_] do you remember it, man? do you remember it? how ravishing it all was--how voluptuous? how delightful to the soul? do you remember it, man? you are going to die soon! you are going to die soon! you are going to die soon! do you remember it, man? [_still more swiftly the old women circle in the dance; still more wild and uncouth their antics become. suddenly all become stricken to silence, and come to a dead stop--even the musicians standing arrested in the exact attitudes of playing, and remaining perfectly silent and motionless. the man rises, and tries to stand upright, with his handsome grey head shaking tremulously. lastly, in a startlingly loud voice--a voice charged with entreaty, wrath, and mortal agony--he cries out, with a pause between each several phrase:_] where is my armour-bearer?--where is my sword?--where is my buckler?--i am without arms!--to my aid!--speed!--speed!--my curse be upon----[_he falls back dead upon the chair, with his head bowed upon his breast. at the same moment the candle in the hand of the being in grey gives a last flicker and goes out. instantly the scene becomes wrapped in deep shadow--a shadow which seems to come creeping, down the entrance-ladder, and gradually to envelop the whole. finally, no light whatever is left upon the stage but a solitary shaft resting upon the head of the corpse. only a low, vague murmuring can be heard proceeding from the old women--a sort of whispering and chuckling._] ~the being in grey.~~ silence ye! a man is dead! [_again there is silence; save that a cold, passionless voice is heard re-echoing as from a great distance, "silence ye! a man is dead!" slowly the gloom deepens, though the crouching, mouselike forms of the old women still remain faintly visible in the obscurity._ [_presently they begin to circle around the corpse again--at first without a word or sound of any kind, but gradually with renewed humming of the refrain of the tune. also, the musicians begin again to play, but with music that is soft and low like dream music; until, in proportion as the gloom deepens, the strains of the musicians and the humming of the old women grow louder, the dance recovers its former wildness and abandon, and the revelry becomes, not so much a dance, as a furious swirl and rush around the dead man--a movement accompanied by stamping of feet, shrill yells, and frequent bursts of weird laughter. in time the darkness becomes complete, except for the shaft of light which is resting upon the head of the corpse; until this also is extinguished, and the scene becomes wrapped in a blackness of obscurity which the eye cannot pierce. from its depths come sounds of the dancers' wild movements, yells, bursts of laughter, and the now strident, discordant strains of the musicians. at length, when the combined din has attained the extreme pitch of pandemonium, the sounds are suddenly wafted away to, apparently, a great distance, and die away. then again there is silence--absolute, unbroken silence._] curtain produced from scanned images of public domain material from the google print project.) he who gets slapped [illustration: _setting by lee simonson_ _photograph by francis bruguierre_ a scene from the theatre guild production] he who gets slapped a play in four acts by leonid andreyev translated from the russian with an introduction by gregory zilboorg [illustration: colophon] new york brentano's publishers copyright, 1922, by brentano's copyright, 1921, by the dial publishing company _all rights reserved_ _printed in the united states of america_ the first regular production of he in english was by the theatre guild on january 9, 1922, at the garrick theatre, new york. the original cast was as follows: _tilly_ } { philip leigh _polly_ } _musical clowns_ { edgar stehli _briquet, manager of the circus_ ernest cossart _mancini, consuelo's father_ frank reicher _zinida, a lion tamer_ helen westley _angelica_ } _trapeze performers_ { martha bryan allen _estelle_ } { helen sheridan _francois_ edwin r. wolfe _he_ richard bennett _jackson, a clown_ henry travers _consuelo, the equestrian tango queen_ margalo gillmore _alfred bezano, a bareback rider_ john rutherford _baron regnard_ louis calvert _a gentleman_ john blair _wardrobe lady_ kathryn wilson _usher_ charles cheltenham _conductor_ edwin r. wolfe _pierre_ philip loeb _a sword dancer_ renee wilde _ballet master_ oliver grymes { vera tompkins { anne tonnetti _ballet girls_ { marguerite wernimont { frances ryan _actresses in circus pantomime_ { adele st. maur { sara enright _thomas, a strong man_ dante voltaire _a snake charmer_ joan clement _a contortionist_ richard coolidge _a riding master_ kenneth lawton _a juggler_ francis g. sadtler _acrobats_ { sears taylor { luigi belastro _stage manager_, philip loeb _ass't stage manager_, oliver grymes _produced under the direction of_ robert milton _settings and costumes by_ lee simonson "stage, screen, and amateur rights for the translation and the original play in all english-speaking countries are owned and controlled by the theatre guild, 65 west 35th st., new york city. no public readings or performances may be given without their written consent." introduction leonid andreyev as a literary figure was born in the gloomy atmosphere of depression of the 'nineties. he thus appeared upon the literary stage at a period when the old and splendid generation of turgenev and dostoevsky had already passed away and when chekhov had begun to demonstrate before the reader the gloom and colourlessness of russia life. this was a period when the social forces of russia were half destroyed by the reaction under alexander iii, and when the young generation was trying to rest and to get away from the strain of social hopes and despair. this period, briefly speaking, was a period of melancholy, of commonplace, every-day preoccupations, and of dull _terre à terre_ philosophy. it must be borne in mind that literature was the only outlet for the moral and intellectual forces of russia. political reaction, censorship, complete absence of civil liberties, and the cult of popular ignorance upon which czardom based its power, all these made the written artistic word almost the sole expression of russian social longings and idealistic expectations. it is therefore only natural that russian literature in its general development is closely interwoven with the political and social conditions of russia at the given moment. the 'nineties were a period of depression. after the assassination of alexander ii (1881) and the subsequent tightening of the chain of reaction, combined with a general _débâcle_ in progressive and radical circles, the russian intellectual fell into a state of pessimism. his faith in an early liberation was shattered, his hope of recovery was broken. chekhov is the most characteristic representative of that period; he himself called his heroes "the dull-grey people." maxim gorki and leonid andreyev appeared almost simultaneously at that time. the former brought the message of a rebel spirit which forecast a new moral upheaval, a new social protest; the latter appeared clad in the gloom of his time, which he strangely combined with a spirit of almost anarchistic revolt. from the point of view of historical completeness leonid andreyev is more representative of the epoch, demonstrating at once two contradictory elements of the russia of the 'nineties: lack or even absence of faith interwoven with protest and mutiny. andreyev is symbolic and romantic. her majesty fate and his excellency accident, these are the two dark, unknown, at times brutal forces which dwelt ever before the mind's eye. his symbols are full of horror and at times unbending atrocity. beginning with his short stories, in fog, the life of basil of thebes, through his dramas, the life of man, and anathema, until his last writings, he saw human beings in the form of ghosts and ghosts in the form of human beings dominating every step, every breath of life. still his gruesome symbolism, despite his genius for rendering his images in a clear-cut, almost crystalline manner, did not appeal to many of his contemporaries because the dark shroud in which andreyev enveloped life was impenetrable and at times it was impossible to discern in that gloom the few values which andreyev still found in life. leo tolstoy said once: "leonid andreyev tries to frighten me, but i am not afraid." even in his splendid realistic dramas it is difficult for andreyev to rid himself of the habit of symbolizing and dimming the few rays of light which try to filter through. there was nevertheless a little corner in andreyev's artistic heart where there appeared some indefinite hope which never acquired a specific artistic form, but which was alluded to many times in his writings. in his short story, thought, he makes fragmentary allusions to his half-hope, half-idea: "if the lot of the man be to become a god, his throne will be the book," says the hero. but the red laugh of the russo-japanese war, the abortive revolution of 1905, the general ignorance and darkness of the masses, the strain of the last war, the depreciation of human life as a value in itself, brought leonid andreyev to the last step of the pessimistic ladder which he was ever descending into the abyss of hopelessness. this state of mind is best illustrated by his last dramatic work, he, the one who gets slapped. here we see a man of high education, of great intellectual achievement, who leaves life, willingly in appearance, but forcibly in fact. the relations of man to man, of group to group, according to andreyev are such that the man is forced to efface himself. even thought, or the book, could not help the man to become a god. he becomes a clown. he performs stunts, he gets slaps; the public laughs, being unaware that this laughter is a mockery at itself, at its culture, at its thought, at its achievement. the characters of the play, as the reader will see, are depicted with a bitter sarcasm and unfriendliness, for andreyev seems to have lost his last faith in the man. the good, the innocent and clean heart is bound to suffer and die. his consuelo, zinida, bezano are only stray rays of light out of place in the world and even in the world-circus which is full of spiders, champagne, and human outcasts. andreyev does not blame these outcasts. on the contrary, he feels sympathy, if for anybody, for just these clowns, jugglers, and bareback-riders; but life, this strange combination of fate, accident, and cowardly slander, is stronger, and they collapse under the burden of this combination. he is perhaps the best work of andreyev, at any rate his best dramatic work. it is more adapted to stage conditions than his previous plays and is not overcrowded with symbolic ghosts. furthermore, he is a remarkable summary of andreyev's philosophy. gregory zilboorg he who gets slapped cast of characters consuelo--_a bareback rider in a circus_. _billed as "the bareback tango queen."_ mancini--_consuelo's father_. he--_a clown in briquet's circus_. _billed as "he who gets slapped."_ briquet--_manager of the circus_. zinida--_a lion tamer, briquet's wife_. alfred bezano--_a bareback rider_. a gentleman. baron regnard. jackson--_a clown_. tilly } polly }--_musical clowns_. thomas, angelica, _and other actors and actresses of briquet's circus_. _the action takes place in one of the large cities of france._ he who gets slapped act i _a very large, rather dirty room, with whitewashed walls. to the left, in a niche, is a window, the only outside window in the room, opening on a court-yard. the light from it is so dim that even by day the electricity has to be turned on._ _at the very top of the centre-back wall is a row of small dusty windows. they open on the circus hall. at night, when the performance is going on, a bright light shines through. by day they are dark. in the same wall is a large white door, reached by two stone steps, and nailed fast._ _on the right, almost in the corner, is a high, wide, arched doorway which leads to the stables and the ring. by day it opens into pale darkness, at night into pale light._ _the room is used for many purposes. it is the office of papa briquet, manager of the circus; here he keeps his little desk. it is the cloak-room of some of the actors. it is also the room where the cast gathers between calls, during rehearsals or performances. again, it is a check-room for used circus property, such as gilt armchairs, scenery for pantomimes, and other wares of the circus household. the walls are covered with circus announcements and glaring posters._ _the time is morning. in the circus hall a rehearsal is going on, and preparations are being made for the evening performance. as the curtain goes up, the cracking whip and the shouts of the riding-master are heard from the ring. the stage is empty for a few seconds, then enter tilly and polly, the musical clowns, practising a new march. playing on tiny pipes, they step from the dark doorway to the window. their music is agreeable to the ear, but small, mincing, artificially clown-like, like their mincing steps; they wear jackets and resemble each other; same smooth-shaven face, same height; tilly, the younger, has a scarf around his neck; both have their derbies on the backs of their heads. tilly glances through the window, then they turn about, still marching._ polly [_interrupting the march_]: stop, you're out again! now, listen--[_he stands close to tilly and plays into his face. tilly absent-mindedly listens, scratching his nose._] there! come on now! [_they resume their music and marching. as they reach the door they meet the manager and_ mancini; _the latter walks behind the manager, and is gnawing at the knob of his goldmounted cane_. count mancini _is tall and slight. the seams of his clothes are worn and he keeps his coat buttoned tight. he assumes extremely graceful manners, takes affected poses, and has a special fondness for toying with his cane, with aristocratic stylishness. when he laughs, which happens often, his thin sharp face takes on a marked resemblance to a satyr. the manager_, "papa" briquet, _is a stout quiet man of average height_. _his bearing is hesitant. the clowns make room for the gentlemen. the manager looks questioningly at the older man._] polly [_with an affected accent_]: our moosic for the pantomime! the march of the ants! briquet ha! yes! [_the gentlemen walk in. the clowns resume their music_, polly _marching on, then turning, the younger following._] polly papa briquet, jack is working very badly to-day. briquet what's the matter with him? polly he has a sore throat. you'd better take a look at him. briquet all right. come on, jack. open your mouth! wider--wider. [_turns clown's face to the light near the window and examines him closely and seriously._] just smear it with iodine. polly i told him so. i said it was nothing! oh! come on. [_they go away playing, marching, practising their funny mincing steps. the manager sits down._ mancini _strikes a pose by the wall, smiling ironically._] mancini so. you give them medical treatment, too! look out, papa briquet, you have no licence. briquet just a little advice. they're all so afraid for their lives. mancini his throat is simply burnt with whiskey. these two fellows get drunk every night. i am amazed, papa briquet, to see you pay so little attention to their morals. [_he laughs._] briquet you make me sick, mancini. mancini count mancini is at your service! briquet you make me sick, count mancini. you poke your nose into everything, you disturb the artists in their work. some day you'll get a thrashing, and i warn you that i shan't interfere. mancini as a man of superior associations and education i cannot be expected to treat your actors as my equals! what more can you ask, briquet? you see that i do you the honour of speaking with you quite familiarly, quite simply. briquet ha! ha! ha! [_slightly threatening_] really!-mancini never mind my joke. what if they did dare attack me--ever seen this, briquet? [_he draws a stiletto out of his cane and advances it silently._] useful little thing. by the way, you have no idea of the discovery i made yesterday in a suburb. such a girl! [_laughs._] oh, well! all right, all right--i know you don't like that sort of sport. but look here, you must give me a hundred francs! briquet not a sou. mancini then i'll take away consuelo--that's all---briquet your daily threat! mancini yes, my threat! and you would do the same, if you were as shamefully hard up as i am. now look here, you know as well as i do that i have to live up to my name somehow, keep up the family reputation. just because the tide of ill-fortune which struck my ancestors compelled me to make my daughter, the countess veronica, a bareback rider--to keep us from starving--do you understand--you heartless idiot! briquet you chase the girls too much! some day you'll land in jail, mancini! mancini in jail? oh, no! why, i have to uphold our _name_, the splendour of my family, [_laughs_] haven't i? the mancinis are known all over italy for their love of girls--just girls! is it my fault if i must pay such crazy prices for what my ancestors got free of charge? you're nothing but an ass, a _parvenu_ ass. how can you understand family traditions? i don't drink--i stopped playing cards after that accident--no, you need not smile. now if i give up the girls, what will be left of mancini? only a coat of arms, that's all---in the name of family traditions, give me a hundred francs! briquet i told you no, i won't. mancini you know that i leave half of the salary for consuelo--but--perhaps you think i do not love my child--my only daughter, all that remains to me as a memory of her sainted mother--what cruelty! [_pretends to cry, wipes his eyes with a small and dirty lace handkerchief, embroidered with a coronet._] briquet why don't you say, rather, that she is foolish enough to give you half her salary. you make me sick---[_enter zinida, the lion tamer; burningly beautiful, her self-confident, commanding gestures at first glance give an impression of languor. she is_ briquet's _unmarried wife._] zinida [_to_ mancini]: good morning. mancini madame zinida! this barbarian, this brute may pierce me with his dagger, but i cannot control the expression of my love! [_kneels facetiously before her_] madame! count mancini has the honour of asking you to be his wife.... zinida [_to_ briquet]: money? briquet yes. zinida don't give him any. [_sits down wearily on a torn sofa, shuts her eyes. mancini gets up and wipes his knees._] mancini duchess! don't be cruel. i am no lion, no tiger, no savage beast which you are accustomed to tame. i am merely a poor domestic animal, who wants, miaow, miaow, a little green grass. zinida [_without opening her eyes_]: jim tells me you have a teacher for consuelo. what for? mancini the solicitude of a father, duchess, the solicitude and the tireless anxiety of a loving heart. the extreme misfortunes of our family, when i was a child, have left some flaws in her education. friends, the daughter of count mancini, countess veronica, can barely read! is that admissible? and you, briquet, heartless brute, you still ask why i need money! zinida artful! briquet what are you teaching her? mancini everything. a student had been giving her lessons, but i threw him out yesterday. he had the nerve to fall in love with consuelo and stood there miaowing at the door like a cat. everything, briquet, that you don't know--literature, mythology, orthography---[_two young actresses appear, with small fur coats thrown over their light dresses. they are tired and sit down in the corner._] mancini i do not wish my daughter---zinida artful! briquet you are stupid, mancini. what do you do it for? [_in a didactic tone_] you are fearfully stupid, mancini. why does she need to learn? since she is here she need never know anything about that life. don't you understand? what is geography? if i were the government i would forbid artists to read books. let them read the posters, that's enough. [_during_ briquet's _speech, the two clowns and another actor enter. they sit down wearily._] briquet right now, your consuelo is an excellent artist, but just as soon as you teach her mythology, and she begins to read, she'll become a nuisance, she'll be corrupted, and then she'll go and poison herself. i know those books, i've read 'em myself. all they teach is corruption, and how to kill oneself. first actress i love the novels that come out in the newspaper. briquet that shows what a foolish girl you are. you'll be done for in no time. believe me, my friends, we must forget entirely what is happening out there. how can we understand all that goes on there? mancini you are an enemy of enlightenment, you are an obscurantist, briquet. briquet and you are stupid. you are from out there. what has it taught you? [_the actors laugh._] if you'd been born in a circus as i was, you'd know something. enlightenment is plain nonsense--nothing else. ask zinida. she knows everything they teach out there--geography, mythology---does it make her any happier? you tell them, dear. zinida leave me alone, louis. mancini [_angrily_]: oh! go to the devil! when i listen to your asinine philosophy, i'd like to skin you for more than a paltry hundred francs--for two hundred--for a thousand. great god! what an ass of a manager! yes, right before every one of them i want to say that you are a stingy old skinflint--that you pay starvation wages. i'll make you give consuelo a raise of a hundred francs. listen, all you honest vagabonds, tell me--who is it draws the crowd that fills the circus every night? you? a couple of musical donkeys? tigers, lions? nobody cares for those hungry cats! zinida leave the tigers alone. mancini beg your pardon, zinida. i did not mean to hurt your feelings--honestly. i really marvel at your furious audacity--at your grace--you are a heroine--i kiss your tiny hands. but what do they understand about heroism? [_an orchestra softly plays the tango in the circus. he continues with enthusiasm._] hear! hear! now tell me, honest vagabonds, who but consuelo and bezano draws the crowds! that tango on horseback--it is--it is---oh, the devil! even his fatuousness the pope could not withstand its lure. polly true! it's a great trick--wasn't the idea bezano's? mancini idea! idea! the lad's in love, like a cat--that's the idea. what's the good of an idea without a woman! you wouldn't dance very far with your idea alone, eh, papa briquet? briquet we have a contract. mancini such base formalities. zinida give him ten francs and let him go. mancini ten! never! _fifteen!_ don't be stubborn, papa. for the traditions of my house--twenty. i swear--on my honour--i can't do with less. [briquet _hands him twenty francs. nonchalantly_] _merci._ thanks. zinida why don't you take it from your baron? mancini [_raising his eyebrows haughtily, quite indignant_]: from the baron? woman! who do you think i am that i should be beholden to a stranger? zinida you're plotting something artful. i know you very little, but i guess you're an awful scoundrel. mancini [_laughs_]: such an insult from such beautiful lips. [_enter an "artist," apparently an athlete._] athlete papa briquet, there's a gentleman from beyond the grave asking for you. actress a ghost? athlete no. he seems alive. did you ever see a drunken ghost? briquet if he's drunk, tell him i'm out, thomas. does he want to see me or the count? athlete no, you. maybe he's not drunk, but just a ghost. mancini [_draws himself together, puffs up_]: a society man? athlete yes. i'll tell him to come in. [_one hears the whip cracking in the ring. the tango sounds very low and distant--then comes nearer--louder. silence._] briquet [_touching_ zinida's _arm_]: tired? zinida [_drawing back a little_]: no. polly your red lion is nervous to-day, zinida! zinida you shouldn't tease him. polly i played a melody from traviata for him. and he sang with me. wouldn't that be a good trick to stage, papa briquet? [thomas _brings in the gentleman, points out the manager, and goes heavily away. the gentleman is not young, and he is ugly, but his rather strange face is bold and lively. he wears an expensive overcoat, with a fur collar, and holds his hat and gloves in his hand._] gentleman [_bowing and smiling_]: have i the pleasure of addressing the manager? briquet yes. won't you sit down, please? tilly, bring a chair. gentleman oh! don't trouble. [_looks around._] these are your artists? very glad---mancini [_straightening and bowing slightly_]: count mancini. gentleman [_surprised_]: count? briquet [_indignantly_]: yes, count. and whom have i the honour of---gentleman i don't quite know myself--yet. as a rule you choose your own names, don't you? i have not chosen yet. later you might advise me about it. i have an idea already, but i am afraid it sounds too much like literature--you know. briquet literature? gentleman yes! too sophisticated. [_they all look surprised._] i presume these two gentlemen are clowns? i am so glad. may i shake hands with them? [_stands up and shakes hands with clowns, who make silly faces._] briquet excuse me--but what can i do for you? gentleman [_with the same pleasant, confident smile_]: oh. you do something for me? no. i want to do something for you, papa briquet. briquet _papa_ briquet? but you don't look like---gentleman [_reassuringly_]: it's all right. i shall become "like." these two gentlemen just made remarkable faces. would you like to see me imitate them? look! [_he makes the same silly faces as the clowns._] briquet yes! [_involuntarily_] you are not drunk, sir? gentleman no. i don't drink as a rule. do i look drunk? polly a little. gentleman no--i don't drink. it is a peculiarity of my talent. briquet [_familiarly_]: where did you work before? juggler? gentleman no. but i am glad you feel in me a comrade, papa briquet. unfortunately i am not a juggler, and have worked nowhere--i am--just so. mancini but you look like a society man. gentleman oh, you flatter me, count. i am just so. briquet well, what do you want? you see i am obliged to tell you that everything is taken. gentleman that's immaterial. i want to be a clown, if you will allow me. [_some of the actors smile_, briquet _begins to grow angry_.] briquet but what can you do? you're asking too much. what can you do? gentleman why! nothing! isn't that funny! i can't do a thing. briquet no, it's not funny. any scoundrel knows that much. gentleman [_rather helpless, but still smiling and looking around_]: we can invent something---briquet [_ironically_]: from literature? [_the clown jackson enters slowly without being noticed by the others. he stands behind the gentlemen._] gentleman yes, one can find something literary, too. a nice little speech for instance on, let's say, a religious topic. something like a debate among the clowns. briquet a debate! the devil! this is no academy. gentleman [_sadly_]: i am very sorry. something else then. perhaps a joke about the creation of the world and its rulers? briquet what about the police? no, no--nothing like that! jackson [_coming forward_]: the rulers of the world? you don't like them? i don't either. shake. briquet [_introducing_]: our chief clown, the famous jackson. gentleman [_enthusiastically_]: great heavens--you! allow me to shake hands with you heartily! you, with your genius, you have given me so much joy! jackson i'm glad indeed! briquet [_shrugs his shoulders; to jackson_]: he wants to be a clown! look him over, jim. [_jackson makes a motion at which the gentleman hurriedly removes his coat and throws it on a chair. he is ready for the examination. jackson turns him round, looking him over critically._] jackson clown? hm! turn round then. clown? yes? now smile. wider--broader--do you call that a smile? so--that's better. there is something, yes--but for full developments---[_sadly_]: probably you can't even turn a somersault? gentleman [_sighs_]: no. jackson how old are you? gentleman thirty-nine. too late? [_jackson moves away with a whistle. there is a silence._] zinida [_softly_]: take him. briquet [_indignant_]: what the hell shall i do with him if he doesn't know a thing? he's drunk! gentleman honestly i am not. thank you for your support, madame. are you not the famous zinida, the lion tamer, whose regal beauty and audacity---zinida yes. but i do not like flattery. gentleman it is not flattery. mancini you are evidently not accustomed to good society, my dear. flattery? this gentleman expresses his admiration in sincere and beautiful words--and you--you are not educated, zinida. as for myself---[_enter consuelo and bezano in circus costume._] consuelo you here, daddy? mancini yes, my child, you are not tired? [_kisses her on the forehead._] my daughter, sir, countess veronica. known on the stage as consuelo, the bareback tango queen. did you ever see her? gentleman i have enjoyed her work. it is marvellous! mancini yes! of course. everyone admits it. and how do you like the name, consuelo? i took it from the novel of george sand. it means "consolation." gentleman what a wonderful knowledge of books! mancini a small thing. despite your strange intention, i can see, sir, that you are a gentleman. my peer! let me explain to you, that only the strange and fatal misfortunes of our ancient family--"_sic transit gloria mundi_," sir. consuelo it's a bore, daddy---where's my handkerchief, alfred? bezano here it is. consuelo [_showing the handkerchief to the gentleman_]: genuine venetian. do you like it? gentleman [_again bowing_]: my eyes are dazzled, how beautiful! papa briquet, the more i look around me the more i want to stay with you. [_makes the face of a simpleton._] on the one hand a count, on the other---jackson [_nods approval_]: that's not bad. look here, think a bit--find something. everyone here thinks for himself. [_silence. the gentleman stands with a finger on his forehead, thinking._] gentleman find something--find something ... eureka! polly that means _found_. come! gentleman eureka---i shall be among you, he who gets slapped. [_general laughter. even_ briquet _smiles_.] gentleman [looks at them smiling]: you see i made even you laugh--is that easy? [_all grow serious. polly sighs._] tilly no, it's not easy. did you laugh, polly? polly sure, a lot. did you? tilly i did. [_imitating an instrument, he plays with his lips a melody at once sad and gay._] jackson "he who gets slapped," that's not bad. gentleman it's not, is it? i rather like it myself. it suits my talent. and comrades, i have even found a name--you'll call me "he." is that all right? jackson [_thinking_]: "he"--not bad. consuelo [_in a singing, melodic voice_]: "he" is so funny--"he"--like a dog. daddy, are there such dogs? [_jackson suddenly gives a circus slap to the gentleman. he steps back and grows pale._] gentleman what!--[_general laughter covers his exclamation._] jackson he who gets slapped. or didn't you get it? polly [_comically_]: he says he wants more---[_the gentleman smiles, rubbing his cheek._] gentleman so sudden.--without waiting.--how funny--you didn't hurt me, and yet my cheek burns. [_again there is loud laughter. the clowns cackle like ducks, hens, cocks; they bark._ zinida _says something to_ briquet, _casts a glance toward_ bezano, _and goes out_. mancini _assumes a bored air and looks at his watch_. _the two actresses go out._] jackson take him, papa briquet--he will push us. mancini [_again looking at his watch_]: but bear in mind, that papa briquet is as close as harpagon. if you expect to get good money here you are mistaken. [_he laughs._] a slap? what's a slap? worth only small change, a franc and a half a dozen. better go back to society; you will make more money there. why for one slap, just a light tap, you might say, my friend, marquis justi, was paid fifty thousand lire! briquet shut up, mancini. will you take care of him, jackson. jackson i can. polly do you like music? a beethoven sonata played on a broom, for instance, or mozart on a bottle? he alas! no. but i will be exceedingly grateful if you will teach me. a clown! my childhood's dream. when all my school friends were thrilled by plutarch's heroes, or the light of science--i dreamed of clowns. beethoven on a broom, mozart on bottles! just what i have sought all my life! friends, i must have a costume! jackson i see you don't know much! a costume [_putting his finger on his forehead_] is a thing which calls for deep thought. have you seen my sun here? [_strikes his posterior._] i looked for it two years. he [_enthusiastically_]: i shall think! mancini it is time for me to go. consuelo, my child, you must get dressed. [_to he._] we are lunching with baron regnard, a friend of mine, a banker. consuelo but i don't want to go, daddy. alfred says i must rehearse to-day. mancini [_horrified, holding up his hands_]: child, think of me, and what a situation you put me in! i promised the baron, the baron expects us. why, it is impossible! oh, i am in a cold sweat. consuelo alfred says---bezano [_drily_]: she has to work. are you rested? then come on. mancini but--the devil take me if i know what to make of it. hey, bezano, bareback rider! are you crazy? i gave you permission for art's sake, to exercise my daughter's talent--and you---consuelo go along, papa, and don't be so silly. we've got to work, haven't we? have lunch along with your baron. and daddy, you forgot to take a clean handkerchief again, and i washed two for you yesterday. where did you put them? mancini [_ashamed, blushing_]: why, my linen is washed by the laundress, and you, consuelo, are still playing with toys. it is stupid! you're a chatter-box. you don't think. these gentlemen might imagine heaven knows what. how stupid. i'm off. consuelo do you want me to write him a little note? mancini [_angrily_]: a little note? your little notes would make a horse laugh! good-bye. [_he goes out toying angrily with his cane. the clowns follow him respectfully, playing a funeral march. he and_ jackson _laugh. the actors disappear one by one._] consuelo [_laughing_]: do i really write so badly? and i love so to write. did you like my note, alfred--or did you laugh, too? bezano [_blushing_]: no, i did not. come on, consuelo. [_they go, and meet_ zinida, _entering. consuelo passes on._] zinida are you going back to work, bezano? bezano [_politely_]: yes. to-day is a very bad day. how are your lions, zinida? i think the weather affects them. consuelo [_from the ring_]: alfred! zinida yes. some one is calling you. you'd better go. [_alfred goes out. to_ briquet] are you finished? briquet right away. jackson then good-bye till evening. think about your costume, he, and i shall look for some idea, too. be here at ten to-morrow. don't be late, or you'll get another slap. and i'll work with you. he i shall not be late. [_he looks after_ jackson _who goes out._] must be a nice man. all the people about you are so nice, papa briquet. i suppose that good-looking bareback rider is in love with consuelo, isn't he? [_laughs._] zinida it's none of your business. for a newcomer you go poking your nose too far. how much does he want, papa? briquet just a minute. see here he. i don't want to make a contract with you. he just as you please. do you know what? don't let us talk about money. you are an honest fellow, briquet; you will see what my work is worth to you, and then---briquet [_pleased_]: now that's very nice of you. zinida, the man really doesn't know anything. zinida well, do as he suggests. now we must write it down. where's the book? briquet here. [_to he_.] i don't like to write [_gives book to_ zinida], but we have to put down the names of the actors, you know--it's police regulations. then if anyone kills himself, or--- [_again comes the sound of the tango, and calls from the ring._] zinida what is your name? he [_smiling_]: he. i chose it, you know. or don't you like it? briquet we like it all right--but we have to have your real name. have you a passport? he [_confused_]: a passport? no, i have none. or, rather, yes. i have something of the kind, but i had no idea the rules were strictly enforced here. what do you need papers for? [zinida _and_ briquet _look at each other_. zinida _pushes the book aside_.] zinida then we can't take you. we cannot quarrel with the police, just on your account. briquet she is my wife. i hadn't told you. she's right. you might get hurt by a horse, or hurt yourself--or do something. we don't know you, you see. i personally don't care, but out there, it's different, you see. for me a corpse is just a corpse--and i don't ask anything about him. it's up to god or the devil. but they--they're too curious. well, i suppose it's necessary for order. i don't know---got a card? he [_rubs his head, thinking_]: what shall i do? i have my card, but [_smiles_] you understand that i don't want my name to be known. briquet some story, hey? he yes, something like that. why can't you imagine that i have no name? can't i lose it as i might lose my hat? or let someone else take it by mistake? when a stray dog comes to you, you don't ask his name--you simply give him another. let me be that dog. [_laughing_] he--the dog! zinida why don't you tell us your name, just the two of us. nobody else need know it. unless you should break your neck---he [_hesitates_]: honestly? [zinida _shrugs her shoulders_.] briquet where people are honest, their word is good. one sees you come from _out there_. he all right. but please, don't be surprised. [_gives_ zinida _his card. she looks at it, then hands it to_ briquet, _then both look at he_.] briquet if it is true, sir, that you are really what is written here---he for heaven's sake--for heaven's sake--this does not exist, but was lost long ago; it is just a check for an old hat. i pray you to forget it, as i have. i am he who gets slapped--nothing else. [_silence._] briquet i beg your pardon, sir, but i must ask you again, i must humbly ask you--are you not drunk, sir? there is something in your eye--something---he no, no. i am he, who gets slapped. since when do you speak to me like this, papa briquet? you offend me. zinida after all, it's his business, briquet. [_she hides the card._] truly you are a strange man. [_smiles._] and you have already noticed that bezano is in love with the horse-girl? and that i love my briquet, did you notice that, too? he [_also smiling_]: oh, yes. you adore him. zinida i adore him. now go with him, briquet, show him the ring and the stables--i have something to write. he yes, yes, please. i am so happy. at last you have taken me, haven't you? it is true--you're not joking. the circus, the tan-bark, the ring in which i shall run getting my slaps. yes, yes, briquet, let's go. until i feel the sawdust under my feet, i shall not believe it. briquet all right then. [_kisses_ zinida.] come on. zinida just a minute--he! answer me a question. i have a man who takes care of the cages, a plain fellow whom nobody knows. he just cleans the cages you know; he walks in and out whenever he wants to, without even looking at the lions, as if he were perfectly at home. why is that so? nobody knows him, everybody knows me, everyone is afraid for me, while---and he is such a silly man--you will see him. [_laughs._] but don't you think of entering the cage yourself! my red one would give you such a slap! briquet [_displeased_]: there you are again, zinida--stop it. zinida [_laughs_]: all right--go. oh yes, louis, send me bezano. i have to settle an account with him. [he _and the director go out_. zinida _looks at the card once more, then hides it. she gets up and walks quickly up and down the room. she stops to listen to the tango, which ends abruptly. then she stands motionless, looking straight at the dark opening of the door through which_ bezano _comes_.] bezano [_entering_]: you called me, zinida? what do you want? tell me quickly, i have no time--- [zinida _looks at him silently_. bezano _flushes with anger, and knits his eyebrows. he turns to the door to go._] zinida bezano! bezano [_stops, without looking up_]: what do you want? i have no time. zinida bezano! i keep hearing people say that you are in love with consuelo. is it true? bezano [_shrugging his shoulders_]: we work well together. zinida [_takes a step forward_]: no---tell me, alfred, do you love her? bezano [_flushes like a boy, but looks straight into_ zinida's _eyes. proudly_]: i do not love anybody. no, i love nobody. how can i? consuelo? she is here to-day, gone to-morrow, if her father should take her away. and i? who am i? an acrobat, the son of a milanese shoemaker---she! i cannot even talk about it. like my horses i have no words. who am i to love? zinida do you love me? a little? bezano no. i told you before. zinida still no? not even a little? bezano [_after a silence_]: i am afraid of you. zinida [_wants to cry out, indignantly, but masters herself and lowers her eyes, as if in an effort to shut out their light; turns pale_]: am i ... so terrifying a woman---bezano you are beautiful, like a queen. you are almost as beautiful as consuelo. but i don't like your eyes. your eyes command me to love you--and i don't like to be commanded. i am afraid of you. zinida do i command, bezano? no--only implore. bezano then why not look at me straight? now i have it. you know yourself that your eyes cannot implore. [_laughs._] your lions have spoiled you. zinida my red lion loves me---bezano never! if he loves you, why is he so sad? zinida yesterday he was licking my hands like a dog. bezano and this morning he was looking for you to devour you. he thrusts out his muzzle and looks out, as if he sees only you. he is afraid of you, and he hates you. or do you want me to lick your hands too, like a dog? zinida no, alfred, but i--i want to kiss _your_ hand. [_with passion_]: give it to me! bezano [_severely_]: i am ashamed to listen to you when you speak like that. zinida [_controlling herself_]: one should not torture another as you torture me. alfred, i love you. no, i do not command. look into my eyes---_i love you._ [_silence._] bezano [_turns to go_]: good-bye. zinida alfred---[he _appears in the doorway, and stops_.] bezano please never tell me any more that you love me. i don't want it. otherwise i will quit. you pronounce the word love as if you were cracking me with your whip. you know it is disgusting--- [_he turns brusquely and goes. both notice he_; bezano, _frowning, passes out quickly_. zinida _returns to her place at the desk, with a proudly indifferent expression_.] he [_coming in_]: i beg your pardon, but i---zinida there you are again, poking your nose into everything, he. do you really want a slap? he [_laughing_]: no. i simply forgot my overcoat. i didn't hear anything. zinida i don't care whether you did or not. he may i take my coat? zinida take it if it's yours. sit down, he. he i am sitting down. zinida now tell me he, could you love me? he [_laughing_]: i? i and love! look at me, zinida. did you ever see a lover with such a face? zinida one can succeed with such a face---he that's because i am happy--because i lost my hat--because i am drunk--or perhaps i am not drunk. but i feel as dizzy as a young girl at her first ball. it is so nice here--slap me, i want to play my part. perhaps it will awaken love in my heart, too. love--[_as if listening to his own heart with pretended terror_] do you know--i feel it! [_in the circus the tango is played again_.] zinida [_listening too_]: for me? he no. i don't know. for everyone. [_listens to the music._] yes, they are dancing--how beautiful consuelo is--and how beautiful is the youth. he has the body of a greek god; he looks as if he had been modeled by praxiteles. love! love! [_silence, music._.] zinida tell me, he---he at your service, queen! zinida he, what shall i do, to make my lions love me? curtain act ii _the same room, during the evening performance. occasional music, laughter, shrieks, and applause are audible. through the small windows, back centre, the light is shining._ _consuelo and baron regnard occupy the stage; consuelo wears her stage costume; she sits with her feet on the sofa, a small shawl covering her shoulders. before her stands the baron, a tall stout man in evening dress, a rose in his button-hole; grasping the ground with feet well apart, he gazes at her with convex spider-like eyes._ baron is it true that your father, the count, has introduced you to a certain marquis justi, a very rich man? consuelo [_surprised_]: no, he is only joking. i have often heard him speak of a marquis justi but i have never seen him---baron and do you know that your father is just a charlatan? consuelo oh! don't say that--father is such a dear. baron did you like the jewels? consuelo yes, very much. i was very sorry when father told me i must return them. he said it would not be nice for me to keep them. i even cried a little about it. baron your father is only a beggar and a charlatan. consuelo oh, no, don't scold him--he loves you so much. baron let me kiss your hand---consuelo oh, no, it isn't proper! one may kiss the hand only when one says how do you do or good-bye. but in the meantime you can't. baron everybody is in love with you, that is why you and your father make such a fuss about yourselves. who is that new clown they call he? i don't like him, he's too shrewd a beast.... is he in love with you, too? i noticed the way he looked at you.... consuelo [_laughing_]: nothing of the kind. he is so funny! he got fifty-two slaps yesterday. we counted them. think of it, fifty-two slaps! father said, "if they had only been gold pieces." baron and bezano, consuelo.... do you like him? consuelo yes, very much. he is so good-looking. he says that bezano and i are the most beautiful couple in the world. he calls him adam, and me eve. but that's improper, isn't it? he is _so_ improper. baron and does he speak to you very often? consuelo yes, often.... but i don't understand him. it seems as if he were drunk. baron "consuelo"!... it means in spanish ... consolation. your father is an ass.... consuelo, i love you. consuelo talk it over with father. baron [_angry_]: your father is a swindler and a charlatan. he should be turned over to the police. don't you understand that i _cannot_ marry you? consuelo but father says you can.... baron no, i cannot. and what if i shoot myself? consuelo, silly girl, i love you unbearably ... unbearably, do you understand? i am probably mad ... and must be taken to a doctor, yanked about, beaten with sticks. why do i love you so much, consuelo? consuelo then, you'd better marry. baron i have had a hundred women, beauties, but i didn't see them. you are the first and i don't see any one else. who strikes man with love, god or the devil? the devil struck me. let me kiss your hand. consuelo no. [_she thinks a while and sighs._] baron do you think sometimes? what are you thinking about now consuelo? consuelo [_with another sigh_]: i don't know why, i just felt sorry for bezano. [_sighs again._] he is so nice to me when he teaches me ... and he has such a tiny little room. baron [_indignant_]: you were there? consuelo no. he told me about it. [_smiling_] do you hear the noise in there? that's he getting slapped. poor thing ... although i know it doesn't hurt, it's only make-believe. the intermission is coming soon. [_the_ baron _throws away his cigar, takes two quick steps forward, and falls on his knees before the girl_.] baron consuelo---consuelo please, don't. get up. please leave my hand alone. baron consuelo! consuelo [_disgusted_]: get up please, it's disgusting--you're so fat. [_the_ baron _gets up. voices are heard near the door and in the ring. it is the intermission. the clowns come first, talking cheerfully and excitedly. he leads them, in his clown's dress, with painted eyebrows and white nose; the others are applauding him. voices of the actors calling: "bravo! he." then come the actors and actresses, riding-masters, and the rest, all in costume. zinida is not among them. papa briquet comes a little later._] polly a hundred slaps! bravo, he! jackson not bad, not bad at all. you'll make a career. tilly he was the professor to-day, and we were the students. here goes another! [_gives him a clown's slap. laughter. all bid good evening to the baron. he is politely rude to these vagabonds who bore him, and remains silent. they seem quite used to it. enter mancini. he is the same, and with the same cane._] mancini [_shaking hands_]: what a success, baron--and think of it--how the crowd does love slaps. [_whispering_] your knees are dusty, baron, brush them off. the floor is very dirty in here. [_aloud_] consuelo, dear child, how do you feel? [_goes over to his daughter. sound of laughing, chattering. the waiters from the buffet in the lobby bring in soda and wine. consuelo's voice it heard._] consuelo and where is bezano? he [_bows before the_ baron, _affecting intimacy_]: _you_ do not recognize me, baron? baron yes i do. you are the clown, he. he yes i am he who gets slapped. may i presume to ask you, baron, did you get your jewels back? baron what! he i was asked to return some jewels to you, and i take the liberty of---[_the_ baron _turns his back on him--he laughs loudly_.] jackson whiskey and soda! believe me, ladies and gents, he will surely make a career. i am an old clown, and i know the crowd. why to-day, he even eclipsed _me_--and clouds have covered my sun. [_striking it._] they do not like puzzles, they want slaps! they are longing for them and dreaming about them in their homes. your health, he! another whiskey and soda! he got so many slaps to-day, there would be enough to go round the whole orchestra! tilly i bet there wouldn't! [_to jackson_] shake! polly i bet there wouldn't--i'll go and count the old mugs. a voice the orchestra did not laugh---jackson because they were getting it, but the galleries did, because they were looking at the orchestra getting slapped. your health, he! he your's jim! tell me, why didn't you let me finish my speech--i was just getting a good start. jackson [_seriously_]: my friend, because your speech was a sacrilege. politics--all right. manners--as much as you want. but providence--leave it in peace. and believe me, friend, i shut your mouth in time. didn't i, papa briquet? briquet [_coming nearer_]: yes. it was too much like literature. this is not an academy. you forget yourself, he. tilly but to shut one's mouth--faugh.... briquet [_in a didactic tone_]: whenever one shuts one's mouth, it is always high time to shut it, unless one is drinking. hey, whiskey and soda! voices whiskey and soda for the manager! mancini but this is obscurantism. philosophizing again, briquet? briquet i am not satisfied with you to-day, he. why do you tease them? they don't like it. your health! a good slap must be clean like a crystal--fft-fft! right side, left side, and done with it. they will like it; they will laugh, and love you. but in your slaps there is a certain bite, you understand, a certain smell---he but they laughed, nevertheless! briquet but without pleasure, without pleasure, he. you pay, and immediately draw a draft on their bank; it's not the right game--they won't like you. jackson that's what _i_ tell him. he had already begun to make them angry. bezano [_entering_]: consuelo, where are you? i have been looking for you--come on. [_both go out. the_ baron, _after hesitating a while, follows them_. mancini _accompanies him respectfully to the door_.] he [_sighs_]: you don't understand, my dear friends; you are simply old, and have forgotten the smell of the stage. jackson aha! who is old, my young man? he don't be angry, jim. it's a play, don't you understand? i become happy when i enter the ring and hear the music. i wear a mask and i feel humorous. there is a mask on my face, and i play. i may say _anything_ like a drunkard. do you understand? yesterday when i, with this stupid face, was playing the great man, the philosopher [_he assumes a proud monumental pose, and repeats the gesture of the play--general laughter_] i was walking this way, and was telling how great, how wise, how incomparable i was--how god lived in me, how high i stood above the earth--how glory shone above my head [_his voice changes and he is speaking faster_] then you, jim, you hit me for the first time. and i asked you, "what is it, they're applauding me?" then, at the tenth slap, i said: "it seems to me that they sent for me from the academy?" [_acts, looking around him with an air of unconquerable pride and splendour. laughter. jackson gives him a real slap._] he [_holding his face_]: why? jackson because you're a fool, and play for nothing. waiter, the check. (_laughter. the bell calls them to the ring. the actors go out in haste, some running. the waiters collect their money._) briquet [_in a sing-song_]: to the ring--to the ring-mancini i want to tell you something, he. you are not going yet? he no. i'll take a rest. briquet to the ring--to the ring- [_the clowns as they go sing in shrill, squeaky voices. little by little they all disappear, and loud music begins. he seats himself on the sofa with his legs crossed, and yawns._] mancini he, you have something none of my ancestors ever had--money. let's have a nice bottle on you. waiter, please--[_the waiter who was taking up dishes, brings a bottle of wine and glasses and goes out._] he you're blue, mancini. [_stretches._] well, at my age, a hundred slaps--it seems pretty hard. so you're blue. how are things getting on with your girl? mancini tss! bad! complications--parents--[_shudders_] agh-he prison! mancini [_laughing_]: prison! mustn't i uphold the glory of my name now, eh? he, i'm joking--but there is hell in my heart. you're the only one who understands me. but tell me how to explain this passion? it will turn my hair grey, it'll bring me to prison, to the grave. i am a tragic man. he--[_wipes his eyes with a dirty handkerchief._] why don't i like things which are not forbidden? why, at all moments, even at the very moment of ecstasy, must i be reminded of some law--it is stupid. he, i am becoming an anarchist. good god!--count mancini, an anarchist. that's the only thing i've missed. he isn't there a way of settling it somehow? mancini is there a way of getting money, somehow? he and the baron? mancini oh, yes! he's just waiting for it, the bloodsucker! he'll get what he's after. some day, you'll see me give him consuelo for ten thousand francs, perhaps for five! he cheap. mancini did i say it was anything else? do i want to do it? but these bourgeois are strangling me, they've got me by the throat. he, one can easily see that you're a gentleman, and of good society, you understand me--i showed you the jewels which i sent back to him--damn honesty--i didn't even dare change the stones, put false ones-he why? mancini it would have queered the game. do you think he didn't weigh the diamonds when he got them back? he he will not marry her. mancini yes he will. you don't understand. [_laughs._] the first half of his life, this man had only appetites--now love's got him. if he does not get consuelo, he is lost, he is--like a withered narcissus. plague take him with his automobiles. did you see his car? he i did.... give consuelo to the jockey-mancini to bezano? [_laughs._] what nonsense you do talk! oh, i know. it's your joke about adam and eve. but please stop it. it's clever, but it compromises the child. she told me about it. he or give her to me. mancini have you a billion? [_laughs._] ah, he, i'm not in the proper mood to listen to your clownish jokes--they say there are terrible jails in this country, and no discriminations are being made between people of my kind, and plain scoundrels. why do you look at me like that? you're making fun of me? he no. mancini i'll never get accustomed to those faces. you're so disgustingly made up. he he will not marry her. you can be as proud as you please, mancini, but he'll not marry her. what _is_ consuelo? she is not educated. when she is off her horse, any good housemaid from a decent house has nicer manners, and speaks better. [_nonchalantly_] don't _you_ think she's stupid? mancini no, she's not stupid. and you, he, are a fool. what need has a woman of intelligence? why, he, you astonish me. consuelo is an unpolished jewel, and only a real donkey does not notice her sparkle. do you know what happened? i tried to begin to polish her-he yes, you took a teacher. and what happened? mancini [_nodding his head_]: i was frightened--it went too fast--i had to dismiss him. another month or two, and _she_ would have kicked _me_ out. [_laughs._] the clever old diamond merchants of amsterdam keep their precious stones unpolished, and fool the thieves. my father taught me that. he the sleep of a diamond. it is only sleeping, then. you are wise, mancini. mancini do you know what blood flows in the veins of an italian woman? the blood of hannibal and corsini--of a borgia--and of a dirty lombardi peasant--and of a moor. oh! an italian woman is not of a lower race, with only peasants and gypsies behind her. all possibilities, all forms are included in her, as in our marvelous sculpture. do you understand that, you fool? strike here--out springs a washerwoman, or a cheap street girl whom you want to throw out, because she is sloppy and has a screechy voice. strike there--but carefully and gently, for there stands a queen, a goddess, the venus of the capitol, who sings like a stradivarius and makes you cry, idiot! an italian woman-he you're quite a poet, mancini! but what will the baron make of her? mancini what? what? make of _her_? a baroness, you fool! what are you laughing at? i don't get you? but i am happy that this lovesick beast is neither a duke nor a prince--or she would be a princess and i--what would become of me? a year after the wedding they would not let me even into the kitchen [_laughing_] not even into the kitchen! i, count mancini, and she a--a simple-he [_jumping up_]: what did you say? you are not her father, mancini? mancini tss--the devil--i am so nervous to-day! heavens, who do you think i am? "her father?" of course [_tries to laugh_] how silly you are--haven't you noticed the family resemblance? just look, the nose, the eyes--[_suddenly sighs deeply._] ah, he! how unhappy i am! think of it. here i am, a gentleman, nearly beaten in my struggle to keep up the honour of my name, of an old house, while there in the parquet--there sits that beast, an elephant with the eyes of a spider ... and he looks at consuelo ... and.... he yes, yes, he has the motionless stare of a spider--you're right! mancini just what i say--a spider! but i must, i shall compel him to marry her. you'll see--[_walking excitedly up and down, playing with his cane._] you'll see! all my life i've been getting ready for this battle. [_he continues to walk up and down. silence. outside, great stillness._] he [_listening_]: why is it so quiet out there? what a strange silence. mancini [_disgusted_]: i don't know. out there it is quiet--but here [_touching his forehead with his cane_] here is storm, whirlwind. [_bends over the clown._] he, shall i tell you a strange thing--an unusual trick of nature? [_laughs, and looks very important._] for three centuries the counts mancini have had no children! [_laughs._] he then how were you born? mancini sh! silence! that is the secret of our sainted mothers! ha-ha! we are too ancient a stock--too exquisitely refined to trouble ourselves with such things--matters in which a peasant is more competent than ourselves. [_enter an usher._] what do you want? the manager is on the stage. the usher yes, sir. baron regnard wished me to give you this letter. mancini the baron? is he there? the usher baron regnard has left. there is no answer. mancini [_opening the envelope, his hand shaking_]: the devil--the devil! [_the usher is going._] he just a minute. why is there no music? this silence.... the usher it is the act with madame zinida and her lions. [_he goes._ mancini _is reading the_ baron's _note for the second time._] he what's the matter, mancini? you shine like jackson's sun. mancini what's the matter, did you ask? what's the matter? what's the matter? [_balancing his cane, he takes steps like a ballet-dancer._] he mancini! [mancini _rolls his eyes, makes faces, dances_.] speak, you beast! mancini [_holds out his hand_]: give me ten francs! quick--ten francs--here, come on. [_puts it automatically into his vest pocket._] listen, he! if in a month i don't have a car of my own, you may give me one of your slaps! he what! he's going to marry? he's decided? mancini what do you mean by "decided?" [_laughs._] when a man has the rope about his neck, you don't ask him about his health! baron--[_stops suddenly, startled._ briquet _is staggering in like a drunken man, his hand over his eyes_.] he [_goes to him, touches his shoulder gently_]: what is the matter, papa briquet? tell me! briquet [_groaning_]: oh, oh, i can't ... i can't ... ah---he something has happened? you are ill? please speak. briquet i can't look at it! [_takes his hands from his eyes, opens them wide._] why does she do it? ah, ah, why does she do it? she must be taken away; she is insane. i couldn't look at it. [_shivers._] they will tear her to pieces. he--her lions--they will tear her-mancini go on, briquet. she is always like that. you act like a child. you ought to be ashamed. briquet no---to-day she is mad! and what is the matter with the crowd? they are all like dead people--they're not even breathing. i couldn't stand it. listen--what's that? [_all listen. there is the same silence._] mancini [_disturbed_]: i'll go and see. briquet [_yelling_]: no! don't! you can't look--damned profession! don't go. you will scorch her--every pair of eyes that looks at her--at her lions--no, no. it is impossible--it is a sacrilege. i ran away.... he, they will tear her---he [_tries to be cheerful_]: keep cool, papa briquet--i had no idea you were such a coward. you ought to be ashamed. have a drink. mancini, give him some wine. briquet i don't want any. heavens, if it were only over---[_all listen._] i have seen many things in my life, but this.... oh, she is crazy. [_all still listen. suddenly the silence breaks, like a huge stone wall crashing. there is a thunder of applause, mixed with shouts, music, wild screams--half bestial, half human. the men give way, relieved. briquet sinks to a seat._] mancini [_nervous_]: you see--you see--you old fool! briquet [_sobs and laughs_]: i am not going to allow it any more! he here she is! [_zinida walks in, alone. she looks like a drunken bacchante, or like a mad woman. her hair falls over her shoulders dishevelled, one shoulder is uncovered. she walks unseeing, though her eyes glow. she is like the living statue of a mad victory. behind her comes an actor, very pale, then two clowns, and a little later consuelo and bezano. all look at zinida fearfully, as if they were afraid of a touch of her hand, or her great eyes._] briquet [_shouting_]: you are crazy--you're a mad woman! zinida i? no. did you see? did you see? well? [_she stands smiling, with the expression of a mad victory._] tilly [_plaintively_]: cut it out, zinida. go to the devil! zinida you saw, too! and!... what---briquet come home--come home. [_to the others_] you can do what you like here. zinida, come home. polly you can't go, papa. there's still your number. zinida [_her eyes meet those of bezano_]: ah! bezano. [_laughs long and happily_.] bezano! alfred! did you see? my lions _do_ love me! [_bezano, without answering, leaves the stage. zinida seems to wither and grow dim, as a light being extinguished. her smile fades, her eyes and face grow pale. briquet anxiously bends over her._] briquet [_in a slow voice_]: a chair! [_zinida sits. her head drops on her shoulder, her arms fall, she begins to shiver and tremble. some one calls, "cognac"--an actor runs to get it._] briquet [_helpless_]: what is the matter, zinida darling? mancini [_running about_]: she must quiet down. get out, get out--vagabonds! i'll fix everything, papa briquet. the wrap--where's the wrap? she's cold. [_a clown hands it to him; they cover her._] tilly [_timidly_]: wouldn't you like some moosic? mancini [_giving her some cognac_]: drink, duchess, drink! drink it all--that's it. [zinida _drinks it like water, evidently not noticing the taste. she shivers. the clowns disappear one by one._ consuelo, _with a sudden flexible movement, falls on her knees before_ zinida _and kisses her hands, warming them between her own_.] consuelo dear, dear, you are cold! poor little hands, dear good one, beloved one---zinida [_pushes her away, gently_]: ho--home. it will soon be over. it's nothing ... i am ver--very ... home.... you stay here, briquet--you must. i'm all right. consuelo you are cold? here is my shawl. zinida no--let me.... [consuelo _gets up, and moves aside._] briquet and it's all because of your books, zinida--your mythology. now tell me, why do you want those beasts to love you? beasts! do you understand, he? you too, you're from that world. she'll listen more to you. explain it to her. whom can those beasts love? those hairy monsters, with diabolic eyes? he [_genially_]: i believe--only their equals. you are right, papa briquet--there must be the same race. briquet of course, and this is all nonsense--literature. explain it to her, he. he [_takes on a meditative air_]: yes, you are right, briquet. briquet you see, dear, silly woman--everybody agrees.... mancini oh! briquet, you make me sick; you are an absolute despot, an asiatic. zinida [_with the shadow of a smile, gives her hand to be kissed_]: calm yourself, louis. it is over--i am going home. [_she stands up, shaking, still chilled._] briquet but how? alone, dear? mancini what! fool! did you imagine that count mancini would leave a woman when she needed help? i shall take her home--let your brutal heart be at rest--i shall take her home. thomas, run for an automobile. don't push me briquet, you are as awkward as a unicorn ... that's the way, that's the way---[_they are holding her, guiding her slowly toward the door_]. consuelo, _her chin resting in her hand, is following them with her eyes. unconsciously she assumes a somewhat affected pose._] mancini i'll come back for you, child---[_only_ he _and_ consuelo _are left on the stage. in the ring, music, shrieks, and laughter begin again._] he consuelo---consuelo is that you, he, dear? he where did you learn that pose? i have seen it only in marble. you look like psyche. consuelo i don't know, he. [_she sighs and sits on the sofa, keeping in her pose the same artificiality and beauty._] it's all so sad here, to-day. he, are you sorry for zinida? he what did she do? consuelo i didn't see. i had closed my eyes, and didn't open them. alfred says she is a wicked woman, but that isn't true. she has such nice eyes, and what tiny cold hands--as if she were dead. what does she do it for? alfred says she should be audacious, beautiful, but quiet, otherwise what she does is only disgusting. it isn't true, is it, he? he she loves alfred. consuelo alfred? my bezano? [_shrugging her shoulders, and surprised_] how does she love him? the same as everyone loves? he yes--as everyone loves--or still more. consuelo bezano? bezano? no--it's nonsense. [_pause; silence._] what a beautiful costume you have, he. you invented it yourself? he jim helped me. consuelo jim is so nice! all clowns are nice. he i am wicked. consuelo [_laughs_]: you? you are the nicest of all. oh, goodness! three acts more! this is the second on now. alfred and i are in the third. are you coming to see me? he i always do. how beautiful you are, consuelo. consuelo like eve? [_smiles._] he yes, consuelo. and if the baron asks you to be his wife, will you accept? consuelo certainly, he. that's all father and i are waiting for. father told me yesterday that the baron will not hesitate very long. of course i do not love him. but i will be his honest, faithful wife. father wants to teach me to play the piano. he are those your own words--"his honest, faithful wife"? consuelo certainly they are mine. whose could they be? he loves me so much, the poor thing. dear he, what does "love" mean? everybody speaks of love--love--zinida, too! poor zinida! what a boring evening this has been! he, did you paint the laughter on your face yourself? he my own self, dear little consuelo---consuelo how do you do it, all of you? i tried once, but couldn't do a thing. why are there no women clowns? why are you so silent, he? you, too, are sad, to-night. he no, i am happy to-night. give me your hand, consuelo, i want to see what it says. consuelo do you know how? what a talented man you are! read it, but don't _lie_, like a gypsy. [_he goes down on one knee and takes her hand. both bend over it._] am i lucky? he yes, lucky. but wait a minute--this line here--funny. ah, consuelo, what does it say, here! [_acting_] i tremble, my eyes do not dare to read the strange, fatal signs. consuelo-consuelo the stars are talking. he yes, the stars are talking. their voices are distant and terrible; their rays are pale, and their shadows slip by, like the ghosts of dead virgins--their spell is upon thee, consuelo, beautiful consuelo. thou standest at the door of eternity. consuelo i don't understand. does it mean that i will live long? he this line--how far it goes. strange! thou wilt live eternally, consuelo. consuelo you see, he, you did tell me a lie, just like a gypsy! he but it is written--here, silly--and here. now think of what the stars are saying. here you have eternal life, love, and glory; and here, listen to what jupiter says. he says: "goddess, thou must not belong to any one born on earth," and if you marry the baron--you'll perish, you'll die, consuelo. [_consuelo laughs._] consuelo will he eat me? he no. but you will die before he has time to eat you. consuelo and what will become of father? is there nothing about him here? [_laughing, she softly sings the melody of the waltz, which is playing in the distance._] he don't laugh, consuelo, at the voice of the stars. they are far away, their rays are light and pale, and we can barely see their sleeping shadows, but their sorcery is stern and dark. you stand at the gates of eternity. your die is cast; you are _doomed_--and your alfred, whom you love in your heart, even though your mind is not aware of it, your alfred cannot save you. he, too, is a stranger on this earth. he is submerged in a deep sleep. he, too, is a little god who has lost himself, and consuelo, never, never will he find his way to heaven again. forget bezano---consuelo i don't understand a word. do the gods really exist? my teacher told me about them. but i thought it was all tales! [_laughs._] and my bezano is a god? he forget bezano! consuelo, do you know who can save you? the only one who can save you? i. consuelo [_laughing_]: you, he? he yes, but don't laugh! look. here is the letter h. it is i, he. consuelo he who gets slapped? is that written here, too? he that, too. the stars know everything. but look here, what more is written about him. consuelo, welcome him. he is an old god in disguise, who came down to earth only to love you, foolish little consuelo. consuelo [_laughing and singing_]: some god! he don't mock! the gods don't like such, empty laughter from beautiful lips. the gods grow lonely and die, when they are not recognized. oh, consuelo! oh, great joy and love! do recognize this god, and accept him. think a moment, one day a god suddenly went crazy! consuelo gods go crazy, too? he yes, when they are half man, then they often go mad. suddenly he saw his own sublimity, and shuddered with horror, with infinite solitude, with super-human anguish. it is terrible, when anguish touches the divine soul! consuelo i don't like it. what language are you speaking? i don't understand---he i speak the language of thy awakening. consuelo, recognize and accept thy god, who was thrown down from the summit like a stone. accept the god who fell to the earth in order to live, to play, and to be infinitely drunk with joy. evoë goddess! consuelo [_tortured_]: he---i cannot understand. let my hand alone. he [_stands up_]: sleep. then wake again, consuelo! and when thou wakest--remember that hour when, covered with snow-white sea-foam, thou didst emerge from the sky-blue waters. remember heaven, and the slow eastern wind, and the whisper of the foam at thy marble feet. consuelo [_her eyes are closed_]: i believe--wait--i remember. remind me further--- [he _is bowed over_ consuelo, _with lifted arms; he speaks slowly, but in a commanding voice, as if conjuring_.] he you see the waves playing. remember the song of the sirens, their sorrowless song of joy. their white bodies, shining blue through the blue waters. or can you hear the sun, singing? like the strings of a divine harp, spread the golden rays---do you not see the hand of god, which gives harmony, light, and love to the world? do not the mountains, in the blue cloud of incense, sing their hymn of glory? remember, o consuelo, remember the prayer of the mountains, the prayer of the sea. [_silence._] he [_commandingly_]: remember--consuelo! consuelo [_opening her eyes_]: no! he, i was feeling so happy, and suddenly i forgot it all. yet something of it all is still in my heart. help me again, he, remind me. it hurts, i hear so many voices. they all sing "consuelo--consuelo." what comes after? [_silence; pause._] what comes after? it hurts. remind me, he. [_silence--in the ring, the music suddenly bursts forth in a tempestuous circus gallop. silence._] he, [_opens her eyes and smiles_] that's alfred galloping. do you recognize his music? he [_with rage_]: leave the boy alone! [_suddenly falls on his knees before_ consuelo.] _i love you, consuelo_, revelation of my heart, light of my nights, i love you, consuelo. [_looks at her in ecstasy and tears--and gets a slap; starting back._] what's this? consuelo a slap! you forget who you are. [_stands up, with anger in her eyes._] you are he who gets slapped! did you forget it? some god! with such a face--slapped face! was it with slaps they threw you down from heaven, god? he wait! don't stand up! i--did not finish the play! consuelo [_sits_]: then you were playing? he wait! one minute. consuelo you lied to me. why did you play so that i believed you? he i am he who gets slapped! consuelo you are not angry because i struck you? i did not want to really, but you were so--disgusting. and now you are so funny again. you have great talent, he--or are you drunk? he strike me again. consuelo no. he i need it for my play. strike! consuelo [_laughs, and touches his cheek with her fingertips_]: here, then! he didn't you understand that you are a queen, and i a fool who is in love with his queen? don't you know, consuelo, that every queen has a fool, and he is always in love with her, and they always beat him for it. he who gets slapped. consuelo no. i didn't know. he yes, every queen. beauty has her fool. wisdom, too. oh, how many fools she has! her court is overcrowded with enamoured fools, and the sound of slaps does not cease, even through the night. but i never received such a sweet slap as the one given by my little queen. [_someone appears at the door._ he _notices it, and continues to play, making many faces_.] clown he can have no rival! who is there who could stand such a deluge of slaps, such a hail-storm of slaps, and not get soaked? [_feigns to cry aloud._] "have pity on me. i am but a poor fool!" [_enter two men: an actor, dressed as a bareback rider, and a gentleman from the audience. he is spare, dressed in black, very respectable. he carries his hat in his hand._] consuelo [_laughing, embarrassed_]: he, there is someone here. stop! he [_gets up_]: who is it? who dares to intrude in the castle of my queen? [_he stops, suddenly. consuelo, laughing, jumps up and runs away, after a quick glance at the gentleman._] consuelo you cheered me up, he. good-bye. [_at the door_] you shall get a note to-morrow. the bareback rider [_laughing_]: a jolly fellow, sir. you wanted to see him? there he is. he, the gentleman wants to see you. he [_in a depressed voice_]: what can i do for you? [_the actor bows, and goes away, smiling. both men take a step toward each other._] gentleman is this you? he yes! it is i. and you? [_silence._] gentleman must i believe my eyes? is this _you_, mr.---he [_in a rage_]: my name here is he. i have no other name, do you hear? he who gets slapped. and if you want to stay here, don't forget it. gentleman you are so familiar. as far as i can remember---he we are all familiar, here. [_contemptuously_] besides, that's all you deserve, anywhere. gentleman [_humbly_]: you have not forgiven me, he? [_silence._] he are you here with my wife? is she, too, in the circus? gentleman [_quickly_]: oh, no! i am alone. she stayed there! he you've left her already? gentleman [_humbly_]: no--we have--a son. after your sudden and mysterious disappearance--when you left that strange and insulting letter---he [_laughs_]: insulting? you are still able to feel insults? what are you doing here? were you looking for me, or is it an accident? gentleman i have been looking for you, for half a year--through many countries. and suddenly, to-day--by accident, indeed--i had no acquaintances here, and i went to the circus. we must talk things over ... he, i implore you. [_silence._] he here is a shadow i cannot lose! to talk things over! do you really think we still have something to talk over? all right. leave your address with the porter, and i will let you know when you can see me. now get out. [_proudly._] i am busy. [_the gentleman bows and leaves. he does not return his bow, but stands with outstretched hand, in the pose of a great man, who shows a boring visitor the door._] curtain act iii _the same room. morning, before the rehearsal. he is striding thoughtfully up and down the room. he wears a broad, parti-coloured coat, and a prismatic tie. his derby is on the back of his head, and his face is clean-shaven like that of an actor. his eyebrows are drawn, lips pressed together energetically, his whole appearance severe and sombre. after the entrance of the gentleman he changes. his face becomes clown-like, mobile--a living mask._ _the gentleman comes in. he is dressed in black, and has an extremely well-bred appearance. his thin face is yellowish, like an invalid's. when he is upset, his colourless, dull eyes often twitch. he does not notice him._ gentleman good morning, sir. he [_turning around and looking at him absent-mindedly_]: ah! it's you. gentleman i am not late? you look as if you did not expect me. i hope i am not disturbing you? you fixed this time yourself however, and i took the liberty---he no manners, please. what do you want? tell me quickly, i have no time. gentleman [_looking around with distaste_]: i expected you would invite me to some other place ... to your home. he i have no other home. this is my home. gentleman but people may disturb us here. he so much the worse for you. talk faster! [_silence._] gentleman will you allow me to sit down? he sit down. look out! that chair is broken. [_the gentleman, afraid, pushes away the chair and looks helplessly around. everything here seems to him dangerous and strange. he chooses an apparently solid little gilded divan, and sits down; puts his silk hat aside, slowly takes off his gloves, which stick to his fingers. he observes him indifferently._] gentleman in this suit, and with this face, you make a still stranger impression. yesterday it seemed to me that it was all a dream; to-day ... _you_ ... he you have forgotten my name again? my name is he. gentleman you are determined to continue talking to me like this? he decidedly! but you are squandering your time like a millionaire. hurry up! gentleman i really don't know.... everything here strikes me so.... these posters, horses, animals, which i passed when i was looking for you.... and finally, _you_, a clown in a circus! [_with a slight, deprecating smile._] could i expect it? it is true, when everybody there decided that you were dead, i was the only man who did not agree with them. i felt that you were still alive. but to find you among such surroundings--i can't understand it. he you said you have a son, now. doesn't he look like me? gentleman i don't understand? he don't you know that widows or divorced women often have children by the new husband, which resemble the old one? this misfortune did not befall you? [_laughs._] and your book, too, is a big success, i hear. gentleman you want to insult me again? he [_laughing_]: what a restless, touchy faker you are! please sit still; be quiet. it is the custom here to speak this way. why were you trying to find me? gentleman my conscience.... he you have no conscience. or were you afraid that you hadn't robbed me of _everything_ i possessed, and you came for the rest? but what more could you take from me now? my fool's cap with its bells? you wouldn't take it. it's too big for your bald head! crawl back, you book-worm! gentleman you cannot forgive the fact that your wife.... he to the devil with my wife! [_the gentleman is startled and raises his eyebrows. he laughs._] gentleman i don't know.... but such language! i confess i find difficulty in expressing my thoughts in such an atmosphere, but if you are so ... indifferent to your wife, who, i shall allow myself to emphasize the fact, loved you and thought you were a saint---[_he laughs._] then _what_ brought you to such a ... step? or is it that you cannot forgive me my success? a success, it is true, not entirely deserved. and now you want to take vengeance, with your humbleness, on those who misunderstood you. but you always were so indifferent to glory. or your indifference was only hypocrisy. and when i, a more lucky rival ... he [_with a burst of laughter_]: rival! you--a rival! gentleman [growing pale]: but my book! he you are talking to me about _your_ book? to me? [_the gentleman is very pale. he looks at him with curiosity and mockery._] gentleman [_raising his eyes_]: i am a very unhappy man. he why? gentleman i am a very unhappy man. you must forgive me. i am deeply, irreparably, and infinitely unhappy. he but why? explain it to me. [_starts walking up and down._] you say yourself that your book is a tremendous success, you are famous, you have glory; there is not a yellow newspaper in which _you_ and _your_ thoughts are not mentioned. who knows _me_? who cares about my heavy abstractions, from which it was difficult for them to derive a single thought? you--you are the great vulgarizer! you have made my thoughts comprehensible even to horses! with the art of a great vulgarizer, a tailor of ideas, you dressed my apollo in a barber's jacket, you handed my venus a yellow ticket, and to my bright hero you gave the ears of an ass. and then your career is made, as jackson says. and wherever i go, the whole street looks at me with thousands of faces, in which--what mockery--i recognize the traits of my own children. oh! how ugly your son must be, if he resembles me! why then are you unhappy, you poor devil? [_the gentleman bows his head, plucking at his gloves._] the police haven't caught you, as yet. what am i talking about? is it possible to catch you? you always keep within the limits of the law. you have been torturing yourself up to now because you are not married to my wife. a notary public is always present at your thefts. what is the use of this self-torture, my friend? get married. i died. you are not satisfied with having taken only my wife? let my glory remain in your possession. it is yours. accept my ideas. assume all the rights, my most lawful heir! i died! and when i was dying [_making a stupidly pious face_] i forgave thee! [_bursts out laughing. the gentleman raises his head, and bending forward, looks straight into he's eyes._] gentleman and my pride? he have you any pride? [_the gentleman straightens up, and nods his head silently._] yes! but please stand off a little. i don't like to look at you. think of it. there was a time when i loved you a little, even thought you a little gifted! you--my empty shadow. gentleman [_nodding his head_]: i am your shadow. [_he keeps on walking, and looks over his shoulder at the gentleman, with a smile._] he oh, you are marvellous! what a comedy! what a touching comedy! listen. tell me frankly if you can; do you hate me very much? gentleman yes! with all the hate there is in the world! sit down here. he you order me? gentleman sit down here. thank you. [_bows._] i am respected and i am famous, yes? i have a wife and a son, yes. [_laughs slowly._] my wife still loves you: our favourite discussion is about your genius. she supposes you are a genius. we, i and she, love you even when we are in bed. tss! it is i who must make faces. my son--yes, he'll resemble you. and when, in order to have a little rest, i go to my desk, to my ink-pot, my books--there, too, i find you. always you! everywhere you! and i am never alone--never myself and alone. and when at night--you, sir, should understand this--when at night i go to my lonely thoughts, to my sleepless contemplations, even then i find your image in my head, in my unfortunate brain, your damned and hateful image! [_silence. the gentleman's eyes twitch._] he [_speaking slowly_]: what a comedy. how marvellously everything is turned about in this world: the robbed proves to be a robber, and the robber is complaining of theft, and cursing! [_laughs._] listen, i was mistaken. you are not my shadow. you are the crowd. if you live by my creations, you hate me; if you breathe my breath, you are choking with anger. and choking with anger, hating me, you still walk slowly on the trail of my ideas. but you are advancing backward, advancing backward, comrade! oh, what a marvellous comedy! [_walking and smiling._] tell me, would you be relieved if i really had died? gentleman yes! i think so. death augments distance and dulls the memory. death reconciles. but you do not look like a man who---he yes, yes! death, _certainly_! gentleman sit down here. he your obedient servant. yes? gentleman certainly, i do not dare to ask you--[_makes a grimace_] to ask you to die, but tell me: you'll never come back there? no, don't laugh. if you want me to, i'll kiss your hand. don't grimace! i would have done so if you had died. he [_slowly_]: get out, vermin! [_enter tilly and polly as in the first act, playing. for a long time they do not see the two men._] he jack! tilly ah! good morning, he. we are rehearsing. you know it is very hard. jack has just about as much music in his head as my pig. he [_introducing, nonchalantly_]: my friend.... for the benefit performance? [_the clowns bow to the gentleman, making idiotic faces._] polly yes. what are you preparing? you are cunning, he! consuelo told me what you are preparing for the benefit performance. she leaves us soon, you know? he is that so? tilly zinida told us. do you think she would get a benefit performance otherwise? she is a nice girl. polly [_taking his small flute-pipe_]: here! don't walk as if you were an elephant. don't forget you are an ant! come on! [_they go off, playing._] gentleman [_smiling_]: these are your new comrades? how strange they are! he everything here is strange. gentleman this suit of yours. black used to be very becoming to you. this one hurts the eyes. he [_looking himself over_]: why? it looks very nice. the rehearsal has begun. you must go away. you are disturbing us. gentleman you did not answer my question. [_slow strains of the tango from a small orchestra in the ring._] he [_listening absent-mindedly to the music_]: what question? gentleman [_who does not hear the music_]: i pray you to tell me: will you ever come back? he [_listening to the music_]: never, never, never! gentleman [_getting up_]: thank you. i am going. he never, never, never! yes, run along. and don't come back. there you were still bearable and useful for something, but here you are superfluous. gentleman but if something should happen to you ... you are a healthy man, but in this environment, these people ... how will i know? they don't know your name here? he my name here is unknown, but _you will know_. anything else? gentleman i can be at peace? on your word of honour? of course i mean, comparatively, at peace? he yes, you may be comparatively at peace. never! [_they walk to the door, the gentleman stops._] gentleman may i come to the circus? you will allow me? he certainly. you are the audience! [_laughs._] but i shan't give you my card for a pass. but why do you want to come? or do you like the circus so much, and since when? gentleman i want to look at you some more, and to understand, perhaps. such a transformation! knowing you as i do, i cannot admit that you are here without any _idea_. but what idea? [_looks short-sightedly at he. he grimaces and thumbs his nose._] gentleman what is that? he _my idea!_ good-bye, prince! my regards to your respected wife, your highness' wonderful son! [_enter_ mancini.] mancini you positively live in the circus, he. whenever i come, you are here. you are a fanatic in your work, sir. he [_introducing_]: prince poniatovsky, count mancini. mancini [_drawing himself up_]: very, very glad. and you too, prince, you know my queer fellow? what a nice face he has, hasn't he? [_he touches he's shoulder patronizingly, with the tip of his cane._] gentleman [_awkwardly_]: yes, i have the pleasure ... certainly. good-bye, count. mancini good-day, prince. he [_accompanying him_]: look out, your highness, for the dark passages: the steps are so rotten. unfortunately i cannot usher you out to the street. gentleman [_in a low voice_]: you will not give me your hand when we say good-bye? we are parting for ever. he unnecessary, prince. i shall still hope to meet you in the kingdom of heaven. i trust you will be there, too? gentleman [_with disgust_]: how you did succeed! you have so much of the clown in you! he i am he who is getting slapped. good-bye, prince. [_they take another step._] gentleman [_looking he in the eyes; in a very low voice_]: tell me, you are not mad? he [_just at low, his eyes wide open_]: i am afraid, i am afraid you are right, prince. [_still low_] ass! never in your life did you use such a precise expression. i am mad! [_playing the clown again, he shows him to the stair, with a big, affected gesture, a sweep of the hand and arm from his head to the floor, the fingers moving, to represent the steps._] he [_laughing_]: he is down! _au revoir_, prince. [_the gentleman goes out. he comes skipping back, and takes a pose._] mancini! let us dance the tango! mancini, i adore you! mancini [_sitting back comfortably and playing with his cane_]: don't forget yourself, he. but you're hiding something, my boy. i always said you used to belong to society. it is so easy to talk to you. and who is this prince? a genuine one? he genuine. a first-rater. like you! mancini a sympathetic face. although at first i thought he was an undertaker who came for an order. ah, he! when shall i finally depart from these dirty walls, from papa briquet, stupid posters, and brutal jockeys! he very soon, mancini. mancini yes, soon. i am simply exhausted in these surroundings, he! i begin to feel myself a horse. you are from society, still you don't yet know what high society means. to be at last decently dressed, to attend receptions, to display the splendour of wit; from time to time to have a game of baccarat [_laughing_] without tricks or cheating---he and when evening comes, go to a suburb, where you are considered an honest father, who loves his children and---mancini and get hold of something, eh? [_laughs._] i shall wear a silk mask and two butlers shall follow me, thus protecting me from the dirty crowd. ah, he! the blood of my ancestors boils in me. look at this stiletto. what do you think? do you think that it was ever stained with blood? he you frighten me, count! mancini [_laughing, and putting the stiletto back into its sheath_]: fool! he and what about the girl? mancini tss! i give those bourgeois absolute satisfaction, and they glorify my name. [_laughs._] the splendour of my name is beginning to shine with a force unknown. by the way, do you know what automobile firms are the best? money is no object. [_laughs._] ah! papa briquet! [_enter briquet in his overcoat and silk hat. they shake hands._] briquet so, mancini, you have obtained a benefit performance for your daughter, consuelo! i only want to tell you, that if it were not for zinida.... mancini listen, briquet. decidedly you are a donkey. what are you complaining of? the baron has bought all the parquet seats for consuelo's benefit performance. isn't that enough for you, you miser? briquet i love your daughter, mancini, and i am sorry to let her go. what more does she need here? she has an honest job, wonderful comrades, and the atmosphere--? mancini not _she_, but _i_ need something. you understand? [_laughs._] i asked you to increase her salary, harpagon! and now, mr. manager, wouldn't you like to change me a thousand franc note? briquet [_with a sigh_]: give it to me. mancini [_nonchalantly_]: to-morrow. i left it at home. [_all three laugh._] laugh, laugh! to-day we are going with the baron to his villa in the country; people say a very nice villa. he what for? mancini you know, he, the crazes of these billionaires. he wants to show consuelo some winter roses, and me his wine cellars. he will come for us here. what is the matter, my little consuelo? [_enter_ consuelo, _almost crying_.] consuelo i can't father! tell him! what right has he to yell at me? he almost hit me with his whip! mancini [_straightening up_]: briquet! i beg of you, as the manager, what is this--a stable? to hit my daughter with a whip! i'll show this cub ... a mere jockey.... no, the devil knows what it is, devil knows, i swear.... consuelo father.... briquet i will tell him. consuelo please don't. alfred didn't hit me. it's a silly thing, what i told you. what an idea! he is so sorry himself.... briquet i shall tell him anyhow that---consuelo don't you dare. you mustn't tell him anything. he didn't do a thing. mancini [_still excited_]: he must beg her pardon, the brat. consuelo he's already asked me to forgive him. how silly you all are! i simply cannot work to-day and i got nervous. what nonsense! the silly boy asked me to forgive him, but i didn't want to. he, dear, good morning! i didn't notice you. how becoming your tie is! where are you going, briquet? to alfred? briquet no, i am going home, dear child. zinida asked me to give you her love. she will not be here to-day, either. [_he goes out._] consuelo zinida is so nice, so good. father, why is it that everybody seems so nice to me? probably because i am going away soon. he, did you hear the march that tilly and polly will play? [_laughs._] such a cheerful one. he yes. i heard it. your benefit performance will be remarkable. consuelo i think so, too. father i am hungry. have them bring me a sandwich. he i'll run for it, my queen. consuelo please do, he. [_loudly_] but not cheese. i don't like it. [mancini _and_ consuelo _are alone_. mancini, _lying back comfortably in an armchair, scrutinizes his daughter with a searching eye_.] mancini i find something particular in you to-day, my child. i don't know whether it is something better or worse. you cried? consuelo yes, a little. oh, i am so hungry. mancini but you had your breakfast? consuelo no, i didn't. that's why i am so hungry. you again forgot to leave me some money this morning, and without money.... mancini oh, the devil ... what a memory i have. [_laughs._] but we shall have a very nice meal to-day. don't eat very many sandwiches.... yes, positively i like you. you must cry more often, my child; it washes off your superfluous simplicity. you become more of a woman. consuelo am i so simple, father? mancini very.... too much. i like it in others, but not in you. besides, the baron.... consuelo nonsense. i am not simple. but you know, bezano scolded me so much, that even you would have cried. the devil knows.... mancini tsss.... never say "the devil knows." it isn't decent. consuelo i say it only when i am with you. mancini you must not say it when you are with me, either. i know it without you. [_laughs._] consuelo ha! listen, father! it's a new number of alfred's. he makes such a jump! jim says he's bound to break his neck. poor fish.... mancini [_indifferently_]: or his leg, or his back; they all have to break something. [_laughs._] they are breakable toys. consuelo [_listening to the music_]: i'll be lonesome without them, father! the baron promised to make a ring for me to gallop over as much as i want. he's not lying? mancini a ring? [_laughs._] no, it's not a lie. by the way, child, when speaking of barons, you must say, "he does not tell the truth," and not, "he lies." consuelo it's just the same. it's nice to be wealthy, father; you can do what you want, then. mancini [_with enthusiasm_]: everything you want. everything, my child. ah! our fate is being decided to-day. pray our clement god, consuelo. the baron is hanging on a thread. consuelo [_indifferently_]: yes? mancini [_making the gesture with his fingers_]: on a very thin, silk thread. i am almost sure that he will make his proposal to-day. [_laughs._] winter roses, and the web of a spider amongst the roses, in order that my dear little fly.... he is such a spider. consuelo [_indifferently_]: yes, a terrible spider. father, oughtn't i to let him kiss my hand yet? mancini by no means. you don't know yet, darling, what these men are. consuelo alfred never kisses. mancini alfred! your alfred is a cub, and he mustn't dare. but with men of that sort, you must be extremely careful, my child. to-day he would kiss your little finger, to-morrow your hand, and after to-morrow you would be on his lap. consuelo foui! father, what are you talking about? you should be ashamed! mancini but i know.... consuelo don't you dare! i don't want to hear such dirty things. i shall give the baron such a slap! a better one than he--let him only try. mancini [_with a deprecating gesture_]: all men are like that, child. consuelo it isn't true. alfred is not. ah! but where is he? he said he'd run, and he hasn't come back. mancini the buffet here is closed, and he has to get the sandwiches somewhere else. consuelo, as your father, i want to warn you about he. don't trust him. he knows something. [_twirls his finger close to his forehead._] his game is not fair. consuelo you say it about everybody. i know he; he is such a nice man, and he loves me so much. mancini believe me, there is something in it. consuelo father, you make me sick with your advice. ah! he, thank you. [_he, breathing somewhat heavily, enters and gives her the sandwiches._] he eat, consuelo. consuelo a hot one.... but you were running, he? i am so grateful. [_eats._] he, do you love me? he i do, my queen. i am your court fool. consuelo [_eating_]: and when i leave, will you find another queen? he [_making a ceremonious bow_]: i shall follow after you, my incomparable one. i shall carry the train of your dress and wipe away my tears with it. [_pretends to cry._] mancini idiot! [_laughs._] how sorry i am, he, that those wonderful times have passed, when, in the court of the counts mancini, there were scores of motley fools who were given gold and kicks.... now, mancini is compelled to go to this dirty circus in order to see a good fool; and still, whose fool is he? mine? no. he belongs to everybody who pays a franc. we shall very soon be unable to breathe because of democracy. democracy, too, needs fools! think of it, he; what an unexampled impertinence. he we are the servants of those who pay. but how can we help it, count? mancini but is that not sad? imagine: we are in my castle. i, near the fireplace with my glass of wine, you, at my feet chatting your nonsense, jingling your little bells--diverting me. sometimes you pinch me too with your jokes: it is allowed by the traditions and necessary for the circulation of the blood. after a while--i am sick of you, i want another one.... then i give you a kick and.... ah, he, how wonderful it would be! he it would be marvellous, mancini! mancini yes. certainly! you would be getting gold coins, those wonderfully little yellow things.... well, when i become rich, i shall take you. that's settled. consuelo take him, father.... he and when the count, tired of my chattering, will give me a kick with his highness's foot, then i shall lie down at the little feet of my queen, and shall.... consuelo [_laughing_]: wait for another kick? i'm finished. father, give me your handkerchief, i want to wipe my hands. you have another one in your pocket. oh, my goodness, i must work some more! mancini [_uneasy_]: but don't forget, my child! consuelo no, to-day i won't forget! go on! mancini [_looking at his watch_]: yes, it is time.... he asked me to come over when you were ready. you must change your dress before i come back. [_laughing._] _signori, miei complimenti._ [_he goes out, playing with his cane._ consuelo _sits on the corner of the divan, and covers herself with her shawl_.] consuelo hello, he! come and lie down at my feet, and tell me something cheerful.... you know, when you paint the laughter on your face, you are very good looking, but now, too, you are very, very nice. come on, he, why don't you lie down? he consuelo! are you going to marry the baron? consuelo [_indifferently_]: it seems so. the baron is hanging by a thread! he, there is one little sandwich left. eat it. he thank you, my queen. [_eats._] and do you remember my prediction? consuelo what prediction? how quickly you swallow! does it taste good? he very good. that if you marry the baron, you.... consuelo oh, that's what you're talking about.... but you were making fun. he nobody can tell, my queen. sometimes one makes fun, and suddenly it turns out to be true; the stars never talk in vain. if sometimes it is difficult for a human being to open his mouth and to say a word, how difficult it must be for a star. think of it. consuelo [_laughing_]: i should say. such a mouth! [_makes a tiny mouth._] he no, my dear little girl, were i in your place, i would think it over. and suppose suddenly you should die? don't marry the baron, consuelo! consuelo [_thinking_]: and what is--death? he i do not know, my queen. nobody knows. like love! nobody knows. but your little hands will become cold, and your dear little eyes will be closed. you will be away from here. and the music will play without you, and without you the crazy bezano will be galloping, and tilly and polly will be playing on their pipes without you: tilly-polly, tilly-polly ... tilly-tilly, polly-polly.... consuelo please don't, he darling---i am so sad, anyway ... tilly-tilly, polly-polly ... [_silence. he looks at_ consuelo.] he you were crying, my little consuelo? consuelo yes, a little. alfred made me nervous. but tell me, is it my fault that i can't do anything to-day? i tried to, but i couldn't. he why? consuelo ah, i don't know. there is something here. [_presses her hand against her heart._] i don't know. he, i must be sick. what is sickness? does it hurt very much? he it is not sickness. it is the charm of the far off stars, consuelo. it is the voice of your fate, my little queen. consuelo don't talk nonsense, please. what should the stars care about me? i am so small. nonsense, he! tell me rather another tale which you know: about the blue sea and those gods, you know ... who are so beautiful. did they all die? he they are all alive, but they hide themselves, my goddess. consuelo in the woods or mountains? can one come across them? ah, imagine he ... i come across a god, and he suddenly takes a look at me! i'd run away. [_laughs._] this morning when i went without breakfast, i became so sad, so disgusted, and i thought: if a god should come, and give me something to eat! and as i thought it, i suddenly heard, honestly it's true, i heard: "consuelo, somebody's calling you." [_angrily._] don't you dare laugh! he am i laughing? consuelo honestly, it's true. ah, he, but he didn't come. he only called me and disappeared, and how can you find him? it hurt me so much, and hurts even now. why did you remind me of my childhood? i'd forgotten it entirely. there was the sea ... and something ... many, many [_closes her eyes, smiling._] he remember, consuelo. consuelo no. [_opening her eyes_] i forget everything about it. [_looks around the room._] he, do you see what a poster they made for my benefit performance? it's father's idea. the baron liked it. [_he laughs. silence._] he [_slowly_] consuelo, my queen! don't go to the baron to-day. consuelo why? [_after a silence._] how fresh you are, he. he [_lowering his head, slowly_]: i don't want it. consuelo [_getting up_]: what? you don't want it? he [_bowing his head still lower_]: i do not want you to marry the baron [_imploring._] i ... i shall not allow it ... i beg you! consuelo whom, then, would you ask me to marry? you, perhaps, you fool? [_with a rancorous laugh_] are you crazy, my darling? "i shall not allow." he! he will not allow me! but it is unbearable! what business is it of yours? [_walking up and down the room, looks over her shoulder at he, with anger._] some fool clown, whom they can kick out of here any minute. you make me sick with your stupid tales. or you like slaps so much. fool, you couldn't invent anything better than a slap! he [_without lifting his head_]: forgive me, my queen. consuelo he is glad when they laugh at him. some god! no, i shan't forgive. i know you. [_makes same gesture as_ mancini.] you have something there! laughs ... so nicely ... plays, plays, and then suddenly--hop! _obey him!_ no, darling, i am not that kind! carry my train, that is your business--fool! he i shall carry your train, my queen. forgive me. give me back the image of my beautiful, piteous goddess. consuelo [_quieting down_]: you're playing again? he i am. consuelo [_laughing_]: you see! [_sits down._] foolish he. he i see everything, my queen. i see how beautiful you are, and how low under your feet your poor court fool is lying. somewhere in the abyss his little bells are ringing. he kneels before you and prays; forgive and pity him, my divine one. he was too impudent; he played so cheerfully that he went too far and lost his tiny little mind, the last bit of understanding he had saved up. forgive me! consuelo all right. i forgive you. [_laughs._] and now will you allow me to marry the baron? he [_also laughing_]: and nevertheless i will not allow it. but what does a queen care about the permission of her enamoured fool? consuelo get up. you are forgiven. and do you know why? you think because of your words? you are a cunning beast, he! no, because of the _sandwiches_. that's why. you were so lovely, you panted so when you brought them. poor darling he. from to-morrow you may be at my feet again. and as soon as i whistle, "tuwhooo"---he i shall instantly lie down at thy feet, consuelo. it is settled! but all my little bells fell off to-day and--- [_bezano appears, confused._] consuelo alfred! you came for me? bezano yes. will you work some more, consuelo? consuelo certainly. as much as you want. but i thought, alfred, you were mad at me? i shan't dawdle any more. bezano no. you didn't dawdle. don't be offended, because i yelled so much. you know when one has to teach, and---consuelo my goodness, do you think i don't understand? you are too nice, unbearably nice, to like teaching such a fool as me. do you think i don't understand? come on! bezano come on! hello, he! i haven't seen you yet to-day. how are you? he how are you, bezano? wait, wait a minute--stay here a minute, both of you--that way. yes! [consuelo _and_ bezano _stand side by side, the jockey scowling_, consuelo _laughing and flushing_.] consuelo like adam and eve? how foolish you are! terribly. [_she runs away._] i shall only change my slippers, alfred. he consuelo! and how about father and the baron? they will come soon, to take you with them. consuelo let them come. they can wait. not very important people. [_runs away._ bezano _hesitatingly follows her_.] he stay here for a while, bezano. sit down. bezano what more do you want? i have no time for your nonsense. he you can remain standing if you want. bezano--you love her? [_silence._] bezano i shall allow nobody to interfere with my affairs. you allow yourself too many liberties, he. i don't know you. you came from the street, and why should i trust you? he but you know the baron? listen. it is painful for me to pronounce these words: she loves you. save her from the spider! or are you blind, and don't see the web, which is woven in every dark corner. get out of the vicious circle in which you are turning around, like a blind man. take her away, steal her, do what you want ... kill her even, and take her to the heavens or to the devil! but don't give her to this man! he is a defiler of love. and if you are timid, if you are afraid to lift your hand against her--kill the baron! kill! bezano [_with a smile_]: and who will kill the others, to come? he she loves you. bezano did she tell you that herself? he what a petty, what a stupid, what a human pride! but _you_ are a little god! a god, youth! why don't you want to believe me? or does the street, from which i have come, bother you? but look, look yourself. look in my eyes, do such eyes lie? yes, my face is ugly, i make faces and grimaces, i am surrounded by laughter, but don't you see the god behind all this, a god, like you? look, look at me! [bezano _bursts out laughing_.] what are you laughing at, youth? bezano you look now as you did that evening in the ring. you remember? when you were a great man, and they sent for you from the academy, and suddenly--hup! he who gets slapped! he [_laughing the same way_]: yes, yes, you are right, bezano. there is a resemblance. [_with a strained expression, taking a pose_] "it seems to me they sent for me from the academy!" bezano [_displeased_]: but i don't like this play. you can present your face for slaps if you want to, but don't dare to expose mine. [_turns to go._] he bezano! bezano [_turning round_]: and never let me hear any more about consuelo, and don't dare to tell me again that i am a god! it is disgusting. [bezano _goes out angrily, striking his boot with his whip. he is alone. wrathfully, with a tortured expression, he makes a step towards the jockey, then stops, with soundless laughter, his head thrown backwards. the_ baron _and_ mancini _find him in this position, when they enter_.] mancini [_laughing_]: what a cheerful chap you are, he! you laugh when you are alone. [_he laughs aloud._] stop it fool! how can you stand it? he [_bowing low, with a large gesture_]: how do you do, baron? my humblest respects to you, count. i beg your pardon, count, but you found the clown at work. these are, so to speak, baron, his every-day pleasures. mancini [_lifting his eyebrows_]: tsss. but you are a clever man, he. i shall ask papa briquet to give you a benefit performance. shall i, he? he please do me the favour, count. mancini don't overdo. be more simple, he. [_laughs._] but how many slaps will you get at your benefit performance, when even on weekdays they ring you like a gong! a funny profession, isn't it, baron? baron very strange. but where is the countess? mancini yes, yes. i shall go for her at once. dear child, she is so absorbed in her benefit performance and her work. they call this jumping _work_, baron. baron i can wait a little. [_sits down, with his silk hat on his head._] mancini but why? i shall hurry her up. i shall be back at once. and you, he, be a nice host, and entertain our dear guest. you will not be bored in his company, baron. [_he goes out. he strides about the stage, smiling and glancing from time to time at the_ baron. _the latter sits with his legs spread apart and his chin on the top of his cane. the silk hat remains on his head. he is silent._] he in what way would you like me to entertain you, baron? baron in no way! i don't like clowns. he nor i barons. [_silence. he puts on his derby hat, takes a chair with a large gesture, and puts it down heavily, in front of the_ baron. _he sits astride it, imitating the pose of the_ baron, _and looks him in the eyes. silence._] he can you be silent very long? baron very long. he [_taps on the floor with his foot_]: and can you wait very long? baron very long. he until you get it? baron until i get it. and you? he i too. [_both look at each other, silently, their heads close together. from the ring one hears the strains of the tango._] curtain act iv _music in the ring. more disorder in the room than usual. all kinds of actors' costumes hanging on pegs and lying in the corners. on the table a bouquet of fiery-red roses, put there by some careless hand. at the entrance, near the arch, three bareback riders are smoking and chattering; they are all minor actors. all part their hair the same way; two wear small moustaches; the third one is clean-shaven with a face like a bull-dog._ the clean-shaven one go on, henry! ten thousand francs! it's too much even for the baron. the second how much are roses now? the shaven i don't know. in winter they are certainly more expensive, but still henry talks nonsense. ten thousand! the second the baron has his own hothouse. they don't cost him anything. henry [_throwing away hit cigar, which has burned the tips of his fingers_]: no, grab, you're silly. there's a whole car-load full! one can smell the roses a mile away. they're to cover the entire arena. the shaven only the ring. henry it's all the same. in order to cover the ring, you must have thousands and thousands of roses. you'll see what it looks like, when they've covered everything like a carpet. he ordered them to make it like a carpet! do you see, grab? the second what a baron's craze! isn't it time yet? henry no, we have time enough. i rather like it: a fiery-red tango on a fiery-red cover of winter roses! the shaven consuelo will be galloping on roses. and bezano? the second and bezano on thorns. [_smiles._] the shaven that youngster has no self-respect. i'd have refused. henry but it is his job. he's got to do it. [_laughs._] talk to him about self-respect. he's as angry and proud as a little satan. the second no, you may say what you like, it's an excellent benefit performance. it's a joy to look at the crowd. they're so excited. henry tss! [_all throw away their cigars and cigarettes, like school boys who are caught, and make way for_ zinida, _who enters with_ he.] zinida what are you doing here, gentlemen? your place is at the entrance. henry [_with a respectful smile_]: we are here just for a minute, madame zinida. we are going. what a successful evening! and what a glory for papa briquet! zinida yes. go, and please don't leave your places. [_they go._ zinida _pulls a drawer out of the desk, and puts in some papers. she is in her lion tamer's costume._] he, what were you doing near my lions? you frightened me. he why, duchess, i merely wanted to hear what the beasts were saying about the benefit performance. they are pacing in their cages, and growling. zinida the music makes them nervous. sit down, he. an excellent evening, and i am so glad that consuelo is leaving us. have you heard about the baron's roses. he everybody is talking about them. the hymeneal roses! zinida here are some, too. [_pushes away the bouquet._] you find them everywhere. yes, i am glad. she is superfluous here, and disturbs our work. it is a misfortune for a cast to have in it such a beautiful and such an ... accessible girl. he but it is an honest marriage, duchess, is it not? zinida i don't care what it is. he spiders, too need an improvement in their breed! can't you imagine, zinida, what charming little spiders this couple will create! they will have the face of their mother, consuelo, and the stomach of their father, the baron, and thus could be an ornament for any circus-ring. zinida you are malicious to-day, he. you are morose. he i laugh. zinida you do, but without joy. why are you without make-up? he i am in the third act. i have time. and how does bezano feel about this evening. is he glad? zinida i didn't talk to bezano. you know what i think, my friend? you, too, are superfluous here. [_silence._] he how do you want me to take that, zinida? zinida just as i said. in fact, consuelo sold herself for nothing. what is the baron worth, with his poor millions? people say that you are clever, too clever perhaps; tell me then, for how much could one buy me? he [_looking as if he were pricing her_]: only for a crown. zinida a baron's crown? he no, a royal one. zinida you are far from being stupid. and you guessed that consuelo is not mancini's daughter? he [_startled_]: what! and she knows it? zinida hardly. why should she know it? yes, she is a girl from corsica whose parents are unknown. he preferred to use her for business rather than.... but according to the law, she is his daughter, countess veronica mancini. he it is nice, to have everything done according to law, isn't it, zinida? but it is curious there is more blue blood in her than in this mancini. one would say that it was she who found him on the street, and made him a count and her father. count mancini! [_laughs._] zinida yes, you are gloomy, he. i changed my mind, you'd better stay. he will i not be superfluous? zinida when she is gone, you will not. oh! you don't know yet, how nice it is to be with us. what a rest for the body and mind. i understand you. i am clever, too. like you, i brought with me from out there my inclination for chains, and for a long time i chained myself to whatever i could, in order to feel firm. he bezano? zinida bezano and others; there were many, there will be many more. my red lion, with whom i am desperately in love, is still more terrible than bezano. but it is all nonsense; old habits, which we are sorry to let go, like old servants who steal things. leave consuelo alone. she has her own way. he automobiles and diamonds? zinida when did you see a beauty clad in simple cotton? if this one does not buy her, another will. they buy off everything that is beautiful. yes, i know. for the first ten years she will be a sad beauty, who will attract the eyes of the poor man on the side-walk: afterward she will begin to paint a little around her eyes and smile, and then will take---he her _chauffeur_ or butler as a lover? you're not guessing badly, zinida! zinida am i not right? i don't want to intrude on your confidence, but to-day i am sorry for you, he. what can you do against fate? don't be offended, my friend, by the words of a woman. i like you; you are not beautiful, nor young, nor rich, and your place is---he on the side-walk, from which one looks at the beauties. [_laughs._] and if i don't want to? zinida what does it matter, your "want" or "don't want"? i am sorry for you, my poor friend, but if you are a strong man, and i think you are, then there is only one way for you. to forget. he you think that that's being strong? and you are saying this, you, queen zinida, who want to awaken the feeling of love, even in the heart of a lion? for one second of an illusory possession, you are ready to pay with your life, and still you advise me to forget! give me your strong hand, my beautiful lady; see how much strength there is in this pressure, and don't pity me. [_enter_ briquet _and_ mancini. _the latter it reserved, and self-consciously imposing. he has a new suit, but the same cane, and the same noiseless smile of a satyr._] zinida [_whispering_]: will you stay? he yes. i shan't go away. mancini how are you, my dear? but you are dazzling, my dear! i swear you are marvellous! your lion would be an ass, if he did not kiss your hand, as i do.... [_kisses her hand._] zinida may i congratulate you, count? mancini yes, merci. [_to_ he]: how are you, my dear? he good evening, count! briquet zinida, the count wants to pay immediately for the breach of contract with consuelo ... the countess's contract. don't you remember, mother, how much it is? zinida i'll look it up, papa. mancini yes, please. consuelo will not return here any more. we leave to-morrow. [zinida _and_ briquet _search among the papers_. he _takes_ mancini _roughly by the elbow, and draws him aside._] he [_in a low voice_]: how are your girls, mancini? mancini what girls? what is this, stupidity or blackmail? look out, sir, be careful, the policeman is not far. he you are much too severe, mancini. i assumed, that since we are _tête-á-tête_.... mancini but tell me, what kind of _tête-á-tête_ is possible, between a clown and me? [_laughs._] you are stupid, he. you should say what you want, and not ask questions! briquet three thousand francs, count. mancini is that all? for consuelo? all right. i'll tell the baron. zinida you took---briquet don't, mother, don't. zinida count, you drew in advance, i have it written down, eighty francs and twenty centimes. will you pay this money, too? mancini certainly, certainly. you will get three thousand and one hundred. [_laughing_] twenty centimes! i never thought i could be so accurate. [_seriously_] yes, my friends. my daughter consuelo--the countess--and the baron, expressed their desire to bid farewell to the whole cast. he the baron, too? mancini yes, auguste, too. they want to do it during the intermission. therefore, i ask you to gather here ... the more decent ones ... but please don't make it too crowded! he, will you, sir, be kind enough to run into the buffet and tell them to bring right away a basket of champagne, bottles and glasses--you understand? he yes, count. mancini wait a minute, what's the hurry--what is this, a new costume? you are all burning like the devils in hell! he you do me too much honour, count, i am not a devil. i am merely a poor sinner who the devils are frying a little. [_he goes out, bowing like a clown._] mancini a gifted chap, but too cunning. briquet it's the tango colour, in honour of your daughter, count. he needs it for a new stunt, which he doesn't want to tell in advance. don't you want to sit down, count? mancini auguste is waiting for me, but ... it's all right. [_takes a seat._] nevertheless i am sorry to leave you, my friend. high society, certainly, prerogatives of the title, castles of exalted noblemen, but where could i find such freedom, and ... such simplicity.... and besides, these announcements, these burning posters, which take your breath in the morning, they had something which summoned, which encouraged.... _there_, my friends, i shall become old. briquet but pleasures of a higher kind, count. why are you silent, zinida? zinida i'm listening. mancini by the way, my dear, how do you like my suit? you have wonderful taste. [_spreads out his lace tie and lace cuffs._] zinida i like it. you look like a nobleman of the courts of long ago. mancini yes? but don't you think it is too conspicuous? who wears lace and satin now? this dirty democracy will soon make us dress ourselves in sack cloth. [_with a sigh_] auguste told me that this jabot was out of place. zinida the baron is too severe. mancini yes, but it seems to me he is right. i am a little infected with your fancy. [he _returns. two waiters follow him, carrying a basket of champagne and glasses. they prepare everything on the table._] mancini ah! _merci_, he. but, please, none of this bourgeoise exploding of corks; be slower and more modest. send the bill to baron regnard. then, we will be here, briquet. i must go. zinida [_looks at her watch_]: yes, the act is going to end soon. mancini heavens! [_disappears in a hurry._] briquet the devil take him! zinida [_pointing to the waiter_]: not so loud, louis! briquet no! the devil take him! and why couldn't you help me, mother? you left me alone to talk to him. high society! high pleasures! swindler! [he _and_ zinida _laugh. the waiters smile._] briquet [_to the waiters_]: what are you laughing about? you can go. we will help ourselves. whiskey and soda, jean! [_in a low and angry voice_] champagne! [_enter_ jackson, _in his clown's costume._] jackson a whiskey and soda for me, too! at least i hear some laughter here. those idiots have simply forgotten how to laugh. my sun was rising and setting and crawling all over the ring---and not a smile! look at my bottom, shines like a mirror! [_turns around quickly._] beg your pardon, zinida. and you don't look badly to-night, he. look out for your cheeks. i hate beauties. briquet a benefit performance crowd! jackson [_looking in a hand mirror, correcting his make-up_]: in the orchestra there are some barons and egyptian mummies. i got a belly-ache from fright. i am an honest clown. i can't stand it when they look at me as if i had stolen a handkerchief. he, please give them a good many slaps to-night. he be quiet, jim. i shall avenge you. [_he goes out._] zinida and how is bezano? jackson [_grumbling_]: bezano! a crazy success. but he is crazy, he will break his neck to-morrow. why does he run such a risk? or perhaps he has wings, like a god? devil take it. it's disgusting to look at him. it's not work any more. briquet you are right, jim! it is not work any more. to your health, old comrade, jackson. jackson to yours, louis. briquet it is not work any more, since these barons came here! do you hear? they are laughing. but i am indignant, i am indignant, jim! what do they want here, these barons? let them steal hens in other hen roosts, and leave us in peace. ah! had i been secretary of the interior, i should have made an iron fence between us and those people. jackson i am very sorry myself for our dear little consuelo. i don't know why, but it seems to me that we all look to-day more like swindlers than honest artists. don't you think so, zinida? zinida everybody does what he wants. it's consuelo's business and her father's. briquet no, mother, that's not true! not everybody does what he wants, but it turns out this way ... devil knows why. _[enter_ angelica _and_ thomas, _an athlete._] angelica is this where we're going to have champagne? briquet and you're glad already? thomas there it is! oh, oh, what a lot! angelica the count told me to come here. i met him. briquet [_angrily_]: all right, if he said so, but there is no reason to enjoy it. look out, angelica, you will have a bad end. i see you through and through. how does she work, thomas? thomas very well. angelica [_in a low voice_]: how angry papa briquet is to-night. [enter he, tilly, polly, _and other actors, all in their costumes._] tilly do you really want champagne? polly i don't want it at all. do you, tilly? tilly and i don't want it. he, did you see how the count walks? [_walks, imitating_ mancini. _laughter._] polly let me be the baron. take my arm. look out, ass, you stepped on my beloved family tree! angelica it'll soon be finished. consuelo is galloping now. it is her waltz. what a success she is having! [_all listen to the waltz._ tilly _and_ polly _are singing it softly._] angelica she is so beautiful! are those her flowers? [_they listen. suddenly, a crash as if a broken wall were tumbling down: applause, shouting, screaming; much motion on the stage. the actors are pouring champagne. new ones come in, talking and laughing. when they notice the director and the champagne, they become quiet and modest._] voices they're coming! what a success! i should say, since all the orchestra seats.... and what will it be when they see the tango? don't be envious, alphonse. briquet silence! not so much noise, please! zinida, look here, don't be so quiet! high society! [_enter_ consuelo, _on the arm of the_ baron _who is stiff and erect. she is happy._ mancini, _serious and happy. behind them, riders, actors, actresses. the_ baron _has in his button-hole a fiery-red rose. all applaud and cry: "bravo, bravo!"_] consuelo friends ... my dears ... father, i can't ... [_throws herself into_ mancini's _arms, and hides her face on his shoulders._ mancini _looks with a smile over her head at the_ baron. baron _smiles slightly, but remains earnest and motionless. a new burst of applause._] briquet enough, children! enough! mancini calm yourself, calm yourself, my child. how they all love you! [_taking a step forward_] ladies and gentlemen, baron regnard did me the honour yesterday, to ask for the hand of my daughter, the countess veronica, whom you knew under the name of consuelo. please take your glasses. consuelo no, i am still consuelo, to-night, and i shall always be consuelo! zinida, dear! [_falls on the neck of_ zinida. _fresh applause._] briquet stop it! silence! take your glasses. what are you standing here for? if you came, then take the glasses. tilly [_trembling_]: they are frightened. you take yours first, papa, and we will follow. [_they take the glasses._ consuelo _is near the_ baron, _holding the sleeve of his dress coat with her left hand. in her right hand, she has a glass of champagne, which spills over._] baron you are spilling your wine, consuelo. consuelo ah! it is nothing! i am frightened, too. are you, father? mancini silly child. [_an awkward silence._] briquet [_with a step forward_]: countess! as the director of the circus, who was happy enough ... to witness ... many times ... your successes.... consuelo i do not _like_ this, papa briquet! i am consuelo. what do you want to do with me? i shall cry. i don't want this "countess." give me a kiss, briquet! briquet ah, consuelo! books have killed you. [_kisses her with tears. laughter, applause. the clowns cluck like hens, bark, and express their emotions in many other ways. the motley crowd of clowns, which is ready for the pantomime, becomes more and more lively. the_ baron _is motionless, there is a wide space around him; the people touch glasses with him in a hurry, and go off to one side. with_ consuelo _they clink willingly and cheerfully. she kisses the women._] jackson silence! consuelo, from to-day on, i extinguish my sun. let the dark night come after you leave us. you were a nice comrade and worker, we all loved you and will love the traces of your little feet on the sand. nothing remains to us! consuelo you are so good, so good, jim. so good that there is no one better. and your sun is better than all the other suns. i laughed so much at it. alfred, dear, why don't you come? i was looking for you. bezano my congratulations, countess. consuelo alfred, i am consuelo! bezano when you are on horseback; but here--i congratulate you, countess. [_he passes, only slightly touching_ consuelo's _glass_. consuelo _still holds it_. mancini _looks at the_ baron _with a smile_. _the latter is motionless._] briquet nonsense, bezano. you are making consuelo unhappy. she is a good comrade. consuelo no, it's all right. angelica you'll dance the tango with her to-night, so how is she a countess? tilly may i clink glasses with you, consuelo? you know polly has died of grief already, and i am going to die. i have such a weak stomach. [_laughter_; baron _shows slight displeasure_. _general motion._] mancini enough, enough! the intermission is over. consuelo already? it's so nice here. briquet i shall prolong it. they can wait. tell them, thomas. mancini auguste, the musicians of the orchestra, too, ask permission to congratulate you and consuelo. do you ...? baron certainly, certainly. [_enter crowd of musicians. the conductor, an old italian, lifts his glass solemnly and without looking at the_ baron.] the conductor consuelo! they call you countess here, but for me you were and are _consuelo_. consuelo certainly! the conductor consuelo! my violins and bassoons, my trumpets and drums, all are drinking your health. be happy, dear child, as you were happy here. and we shall conserve for ever in our hearts the fair memory of our light-winged fairy, who guided our bows so long. i have finished! give my love to our beautiful italy, consuelo. [_applause, compliments. the musicians one after another clink glasses and go out into the corridor._ consuelo _is almost crying_.] mancini don't be so sensitive, my child, it is indecent. had i known that you would respond this way to this comedy--auguste, look how touched this little heart is! baron calm yourself, consuelo. consuelo it is all right. ah, father, listen! [_the musicians are playing the tango in the corridor. exclamations._] mancini you see. it is for you. consuelo they are so nice. my tango! i want to dance. who is going to dance with me? [_looks around, seeking_ bezano, _who turns away sadly_.] who, then? voices baron! let the baron dance! baron! baron all right. [_takes_ consuelo's _arm, and stands in the centre of a circle which is formed_.] i do not know how to dance the tango, but i shall hold tight. dance, consuelo. [_he stands with legs spread, heavily and awkwardly, like an iron-moulded man, holding_ consuelo's _arm firmly and seriously_.] mancini [_applauding_]: bravo! bravo! [consuelo _makes a few restless movements, and pulls her arm away_.] consuelo no, i can't this way. how stupid! let me go! [_she goes to_ zinida _and embraces her, as if hiding herself_. _the music still plays. the_ baron _goes off quietly to the side_. _there is an unfriendly silence among the cast. they shrug their shoulders._] mancini [_alone_]: bravo! bravo! it is charming, it is exquisite! jackson not entirely, count. [tilly _and_ polly _imitate the_ baron _and_ consuelo _without moving from their places_.] tilly [_shrieking_]: let me go! polly no, i'll not. dance! [_the music stops abruptly. general, too loud laughter; the clowns bark and roar. papa_ briquet _gesticulates, in order to re-establish silence_. _the_ baron _is apparently as indifferent as before_.] mancini really these vagabonds are becoming too impertinent. [_shrugging his shoulders_] it smells of the stable. you cannot help it, auguste! baron don't be upset, count. he [_holding his glass, approaches the_ baron]: baron. will you permit me to make a toast? baron make it. he to your dance! [_slight laughter in the crowd._] baron i don't dance! he then another one, baron. let us drink to those who know how to wait longer, until they get it. baron i do not accept any toasts which i do not understand. say it more simply. [_voice of a woman: "bravo, he!_" _slight laughter._ mancini _says something hastily to_ briquet; _the latter spreads his arms in gesture of helplessness_. jackson _takes he by the arm_.] jackson beat it, he! the baron doesn't like jokes. he but i want to drink with the baron. what can be simpler? simpler? baron, let us drink to the very small distance which will always remain 'twixt the cup and the lip! [_spills his wine, and laughs._] [_the_ baron _turns his back on him, indifferently_. _the music plays in the ring. the bell rings._] briquet [_relieved_]: there! to the ring, ladies and gentlemen, to the ring, to the ring! [_the actresses run out. the crowd becomes smaller; laughter and voices._] mancini [_much excited, whispers to the_ baron]: "auguste, auguste----" briquet [_to_ zinida]: thank heaven they're beginning. ah, mother, i asked you ... but you want a scandal by all means, and you always---zinida let me alone, louis. [_he approaches consuelo, who is alone._] consuelo he, deary, how are you? i thought you didn't want even to come near me. [_in a low voice_] did you notice bezano? he i was waiting for my turn, queen. it was so difficult to get through the crowd to approach you. consuelo through the crowd? [_with a sad smile_] i am quite alone. what do you want, father? mancini child! auguste.... consuelo [_pulling away her hand_]: let me alone! i'll soon be---come here, he. what did you say to him? they all laughed. i couldn't understand. what? he i joked, consuelo. consuelo please don't, he, don't make him angry; he is so terrible. did you see how he pressed my arm? i wanted to scream. [_with tears in her eyes_] he hurt me! he it's not too late yet. refuse him. consuelo it is too late, he. don't talk about it. he do you want it? i will take you away from here. consuelo where to? [_laughs._] ah, my dear little silly boy, where could you take me to. all right, be quiet. how pale you are! you too, love me? don't he, please don't! why do they all love me? he you are so beautiful! consuelo no, no. it's not true. they must not love me. i was still a little cheerful, but when they began to speak ... so nicely ... and about italy ... and to bid farewell, as if i were dying, i thought i should begin to cry. don't talk, don't talk, but drink to ... my happiness. [_with a sad smile_] to my happiness, he. what are you doing? he i am throwing away the glass from which you drank with the others. i shall give you another one. wait a minute. [_goes to pour champagne._ consuelo _walks about thoughtfully_. _almost all are gone. only the principal figures are left._] mancini [_coming to her_]: but it is really becoming indecent, veronica. auguste is so nice, he is waiting for you, and you talk here with this clown. some stupid secrets. they're looking at you--it is becoming noticeable. it is high time, veronica, to get rid of these habits. consuelo [_loudly_]: let me alone, father! i want to do so, and will do so. they are all my friends. do you hear? let me alone! baron don't, count. please, consuelo, talk to whomever you please and as much as you want. would you like a cigar, count? dear briquet, please order them to prolong the intermission a little more. briquet with pleasure, baron. the orchestra crowd can be a little angry. [_goes, and returns shortly._ _he gives a glass to_ consuelo.] he here is your glass. to your happiness, to your freedom, consuelo! consuelo and where is yours? we must touch our glasses. he you leave half. consuelo must i drink so much? he, deary, i shall become drunk. i still have to ride. he no, you will not be drunk. dear little girl, did you forget that i am your magician? be quiet and drink. i charmed the wine. my witchery is in it. drink, goddess. consuelo [_lingeringly_]: what kind eyes you have. but why are you so pale? he because i love you. look at my kind eyes and drink; give yourself up to my charms, goddess! you shall fall asleep, and wake again, as before. do you remember? and you shall see your country, your sky.... consuelo [_bringing the glass to her lips_]: i shall see all this; is that true? he [_growing paler_]: yes! awake, goddess, and remember the time when, covered with snow-white sea-foam, thou didst emerge from the sky blue waters. remember heaven, and the low eastern wind, and the whisper of the foam at thy marble feet.... consuelo [_drinking_]: there! look! just a half! take it. but what is the matter with you? are you laughing or crying? he i am laughing and crying. mancini [_pushing he away, slightly_]: enough, countess, my patience is exhausted. if auguste is good enough to allow it, then i, your father--your arm, countess! will you step aside, sir? consuelo i am tired. mancini you are not too tired to chatter and drink wine with a clown, and when your duty calls you--briquet! tell them to ring the bell. it is time. consuelo i am tired, father. zinida count, it is cruel. don't you see how pale she has become? baron what is the matter with you, dear little consuelo? consuelo nothing. zinida she simply needs a rest, baron. she hasn't sat down yet ... and so much excitement.... sit down here, dear child. cover yourself and rest a little. men are so cruel! consuelo i still have to work. [_closing her eyes._] and the roses, are they ready? zinida ready, dear, ready. you will have such an extraordinary carpet. you will gallop as if on air. rest. polly do you want some moosic? we will play you a song; do you want it? consuelo [_smiling, eyes closed_]: yes, i do. [_the clowns play a soft and naïve song: tilly-polly, tilly-polly. general silence._ _he sits in the corner with his face turned away._ jackson _watches him out of the corner of his eye, and drinks wine, lazily_. _the_ baron, _in his usual pose, wide and heavily spread legs, looks at the pale face of_ consuelo, _with his bulging motionless eyes_.] consuelo [_with a sudden cry_]: ah! pain! zinida what is it, consuelo? mancini my child! are you sick! calm yourself. baron [_growing pale_]: wait a moment.... she was too much excited.... consuelo! consuelo [_gets up, looking before her with wide-open eyes, as if she were listening to something within herself_]: ah! i feel pain. here at the heart. father, what is it? i am afraid. what is it? my feet too ... i can't stand.... [_falls on divan, her eyes wide open._] mancini [_running about_]: bring a doctor! heavens, it is terrible! auguste, baron.... it never happened to her. it is nerves, nerves.... calm yourself, calm, child---briquet bring a doctor! [_somebody runs for a doctor._] jackson [_in a voice full of fear_]: he, what is the matter with you? he it is death, consuelo, my little queen. i killed you. you are dying. [_he cries, loudly and bitterly._ consuelo _with a scream, closes her eyes, and becomes silent and quiet_. _all are in terrible agitation. the_ baron _is motionless, and sees only_ consuelo.] mancini [_furious_]: you are lying, rascal! damned clown! what did you give her? you poisoned her! murderer! bring a doctor! he a doctor will not help. you are dying, my little queen. consuelo! consuelo! [bezano _rushes in, cries_: "briquet!" _becomes silent and looks with horror at_ consuelo. _somebody else comes in._ briquet _is making gestures for someone to close the door_.] consuelo [_in a dull and distant voice_]: you are joking, he? don't frighten me. i am so frightened. is that death? i don't want it. ah, he, my darling he, tell me that you are joking, i am afraid, my dear, golden he! [_he pushes away the_ baron, _with a commanding gesture, and stands in his place near_ consuelo. _the_ baron _stands as before, seeing only_ consuelo.] he yes, i am joking. don't you hear how i laugh, consuelo? they all laugh at you here, my silly child. don't laugh, jim. she is tired, and wants to sleep. how can you laugh, jim! sleep my dear, sleep my heart, sleep my love. consuelo yes, i have no more pain. why did you joke that way, and frighten me? now i laugh at myself. you told me, didn't you, that i ... should ... live ... eternally? he yes, consuelo! you shall live eternally. sleep. be calm. [_lifts up his arms, as if straining with all his forces to lift her soul higher._] how easy it is now! how much light, how many lights are burning about you.... the light is blinding you. consuelo yes, light.... is that the ring? he no, it is the sea and the sun ... what a sun! don't you feel that you are the foam, white sea-foam, and you are flying to the sun? you feel light, you have no body, you are flying higher, my love! consuelo i am flying. i am the sea-foam, and this is the sun, it shines ... so strong.... i feel well. [_she dies. silence. he stays a moment with lifted arms, then takes a long look, lets his arms fall, and shakingly goes off to one side. he stands still for a moment, then sits down, drops hit head on his hands, and struggles lonesomely with the torpidity of coming death._] briquet [_slowly_]: she has fallen asleep, mother? zinida [_dropping the dead hand_]: i am afraid not.... step aside, louis. baron, it is better for you to step aside. baron! do you hear me? [_weeps._] she is dead, louis. [_the clowns and_ briquet _are crying_. mancini _is overwhelmed_. _the_ baron _and he are motionless, each in his place_.] jackson [_drawing out a large prismatic clown's handkerchief to wipe away his tears_]: faded, like a flower. sleep, little consuelo! the only thing that remains of you is the trace of your little feet on the sand. [_cries._] ah, what did you do, what did you do, he!... it would have been better if you had never come to us. [_there it music in the ring._] briquet [_gesticulating_]: the music! stop the music! they are crazy there. what a misfortune! [_someone runs off._ zinida _approaches the crying_ bezano _and strokes his bowed, pomaded head_. _when he notices her, he catches her hand and presses it to his eyes._ _the_ baron _takes the rose from his button-hole, tears off the petals, and drops it, grinding it with his foot_. _a few pale faces peer through the door, the same masquerade crowd._] zinida [_over the head of_ bezano]: louis, we must call the police. mancini [_awakening from his stupor, screams_]: the police! call the police! it's a murder! i am count mancini, i am count mancini! they will cut off your head, murderer, damned clown, thief! i myself will kill you, rascal! ah, you! [_he lifts his heavy head with difficulty._] he they will cut off my head? and what more.... your excellency? baron sir! listen, sir! i am going for the police. stop it, sir. [_he suddenly takes a step forward, and looking he in the eyes, speaks in a hoarse voice, with a cough, holding one hand at his throat._] i am the witness. i saw. i am a witness. i saw how he put poison ... i--- [_he leaves the room, suddenly, with the same straight, heavy steps. all move away from him, frightened. he drops his head again. from time to time a tremor shakes his body._] jackson [_clasping his hands_]: then it is all true? poisoned! what a vile man you are, he. is this the way to play? now wait for the last slap of the executioner! [_makes the gesture around his neck, of the guillotine. tilly and polly repeat the gesture._] zinida leave his soul alone, jim. he was a man, and he loved. happy consuelo! [_a shot is heard in the corridor._ thomas, _frightened, runs in and points to his head_.] thomas baron ... baron ... his head.... he shot himself?... briquet [_throwing his arms up_]: god! what is it? the baron? what a calamity for our circus. mancini the baron? the baron? no. what are you standing here for? ah! briquet calm down, count. who would have believed it? such a respectable ... gentleman! he [_lifting his head with difficulty; he sees only dimly with his dulled eyes_]: what more? what happened? thomas the baron shot himself. honestly. straight here! he's lying out yonder. he [_thinking it over_]: baron? [_laughs._] then the baron burst? jackson stop it! it's shameless. a man died and you.... what's the matter with you, he? he [_stands up, lifted to his feet by the last gleam of consciousness and life, speaks strongly and indignantly_]: you loved her so much, baron? so much? my consuelo? and you want to be ahead of me even _there_? no! i am coming. we shall prove then whose she is to be for ever.... [_he catches at his throat, falls on his back. people run to him. general agitation._] curtain (images generously made available by the internet archive.) anathema _a tragedy in seven scenes_ by leonid andreyev authorized translation by herman bernstein new york the macmillan company 1910 "_i myself shall bring them bread and milk.... children are so tender.... they need so little; they eat a little crust of bread and they have enough, they drink a cup of milk and they know no thirst any longer. then they sing...._"--david luizer. _to_ nathan straus who so generously saved the lives of thousands of children the translation of this work is heartily dedicated by herman bernstein characters guardian of the entrances anathema david leizer sarah, _his wife_ naum} _their children_ rosa} ivan bezkrainy} sonka zitron } _tradespeople_ purikes dancing-master young man pale man organ-grinder wanderer abraham khessin weeping woman woman with child in her arms drunkard sonka's little girl leibke _musicians, blind people, crowd_ anathema prologue. _the scene represents a wild, deserted place, the slope of a mountain rising to infinite heights. in the rear of the stage, halfway up the mountain, huge iron gates, tightly closed, indicate the boundary of the world as we conceive it. beyond the iron gates, which oppress the earth with their enormous weight, in silence and in mystery, dwells the beginning of every being, the supreme wisdom of the universe._ _at the foot of the gates stands someone guarding the entrances, leaning upon a long sword, perfectly motionless. garbed in wide clothes, which are like stone in the motionlessness of their folds and creases, he hides his face beneath a dark cover, and is himself the greatest of mysteries. standing on the boundary separating two worlds, he is dual in his make-up;--in appearance a man, in reality a spirit. an arbitrator between two worlds, he is like unto a huge shield, which gathers all bolts,--all looks, all entreaties, all expectations, reproaches, and curses. the bearer of two elements, he wraps his speech in silence, which is like the silence of the iron gates, and sometimes in human words._ _amidst the rocks, looking around on all sides strangely and shyly, appears anathema, someone accursed. clinging to the grey rocks, himself grey, cautious and flexible, like a serpent seeking a hole, he goes stealthily and quietly to the guardian of the entrances, desiring to strike him with an unexpected blow. but he is frightened by his own audacity and, jumping to his feet, laughs defiantly and maliciously. then he sits down on a rock, with an air of freedom and independence, and throws small cobblestones at the feet of the guardian of the entrances;--cunning, he conceals his fear beneath the mask of raillery and slight audacity. in the faint, grey, almost colorless light, the head of the accursed one seems enormous; especially large is his high forehead, which is furrowed by wrinkles of fruitless reflections and unsolvable eternal problems. anathema's thin beard is perfectly grey; his hair, once jet black, is also greyish, rising on his head in disordered tufts. restless in his movements, he is vainly trying to conceal his alarm and his purposeless haste, which are forever devouring him. endeavoring to emulate the proud stillness of the guardian of the entrances, he grows quiet for an instant in the pose of proud majesty, but the very next moment, in painful quest after the eternally elusive, he wriggles in mute spasms, like a worm under foot. and in his questions he is rapid and impetuous like a whirlwind, drawing strength and fury in his mad whirl...._ * * * * * anathema. you are still here on guard? and i thought you were away,--even a chained dog has his moments of rest or sleep, even though the whole world be his kennel and eternity his master! is eternity afraid of thieves? but do not be angry. i have come to you as a good friend and i implore humbly: open the heavy gates for an instant and allow me to have a glimpse of eternity. you dare not? but perhaps the mighty gates have cracked from age, and the unfortunate, honest anathema could peep into the narrow cleft, without disturbing any one,--show me it with a sign. softly, on my belly, will i crawl over, i will glance at it and crawl back,--and he will not know. but i shall know and become a god, become a god, a god! i have so long wanted to become a god--and would i be a poor god? look! _he assumes a haughty pose, but immediately bursts into laughter. then he sits down calmly on a flat rock and, folding his legs under him, takes out dice. he mutters something to himself, yet loud enough to be heard by the guardian of the entrances._ if you don't want to you need not do it,--i shall not fight with you. have i come here for that purpose? i simply roamed about the world and came here by mere accident--i have nothing to do, so i roam about. and now i am going to throw dice. if he were not so serious, i would have invited him, too,--but he is too proud, too proud, and he does not understand the pleasure of the game. six, eight, twenty--correct! it's always correct when the devil plays, even when he plays honestly.... david leizer ... david leizer ... _turning to the guardian of the entrances, he speaks freely._ do you know david leizer? you surely do not know him. he is a sick and foolish old jew, whom no one knows, and even your master has forgotten about him. so says david leizer, and i cannot help believing him--he is a foolish, but honest man. he is the man i have won just now with my dice--you saw it: six, eight, twenty.... one day i met david leizer by the seashore, when he was questioning what the waves were complaining of; and i liked him. he is a foolish, but honest man, and if he should be well tarred and lighted, he would make a brilliant torch for my feast. _chatting with feigned ease, he steps over softly to the rock nearest the guardian._ no one knows david leizer, but i shall make him famous, i shall make him mighty and great--it is very possible that i shall even make him immortal! you do not believe me? no one believes the wise anathema, even when he speaks the truth--and who loves the truth more than anathema does? perhaps you? you silent dog, you who have stolen the truth from the world, you who have barred the entrances with iron!... _he rushes furiously toward the guardian of the entrances, but retreats from the stern, motionless guardian, with a shriek of horror and pain. and he speaks plaintively, falling with his grey chest upon the grey rock._ oh, the devil's hair is grey! weep, you who have grown fond of anathema! wail and grieve, you who are striving toward truth, who are honoring wisdom--anathema's hair is grey! who will help the son of dawn? he is alone in the universe. wherefore, o great one, have you frightened the fearless anathema--he did not intend to strike you, he only wanted to approach you. may i come over to you? tell me. _the guardian of the entrances is silent, but to anathema it seems that he hears something in the silence. outstretching his serpentine neck, he shouts passionately_. louder! louder! are you silent, or did you speak? i do not understand. the accursed one has a sensitive ear and discerns the shades of certain words in your silence; he feels a vague movement of thoughts in your motionlessness,--but he does not understand. did you speak or are you silent? did you say: "come," or did it only sound so to me? the guardian. come. anathema. you said it, but i dare not come up to you. guardian. come. anathema. i am afraid. _he advances toward the guardian irresolutely, in zigzag movements; lies down on his belly and crawls, wailing with longing and fear._ oh, i the prince of darkness, wise and powerful, and yet you see--i am crawling on my belly like a dog. and i am doing it because i love you, i want to kiss the hem of your cloak. but why does my old heart ache so much? tell me, omniscient. guardian. the accursed one has no heart. anathema. _advancing._ yes, yes. the accursed has no heart, his chest is mute and motionless like the grey rock which does not breathe. oh, if anathema had a heart, you would have destroyed him long ago by his sufferings, even as you destroy the foolish man. but anathema has a mind that is searching for the truth, unprotected against your blows--spare it.... here i am at your feet, reveal your face to me. only for an instant, as brief as the flash of lightning,--reveal your face to me. _he cringes servilely at the feet of the guardian, not daring, however, to touch his cloak. he is vainly endeavoring to lower his eyes, which are quick and searching, sharp, flashing like coals beneath grey ashes. the guardian is silent and anathema continues his fruitless and persistent entreaties._ do you not want to do it? then call the name of him who is beyond the gates. call it in a soft voice, and no one will hear it; only i will know it, the wise anathema, longing for truth. is it not true that it consists of seven letters? or of six? or of one? tell me. only one letter--and you will save the accursed one from eternal tortures, and the earth, which i am tearing with my nails, will bless you. you may say it softly, softly, you may only breathe it, and i shall understand it, and i shall bless you.... tell me. _the guardian is silent, and anathema, after some hesitation, full of fury, crawls away slowly, growing holder with every step._ it is not true that i love you.... it is not true that i wanted to kiss the hem of your cloak.... i feel sorry for you, if you believed me.... i simply have nothing to do, so i roam about in the world.... i have nothing to do, so i question the passers-by about this and that,--about things i know myself.... i know everything! _he rises, shakes himself like a dog that has just come out of the water, and choosing the highest rock, stands up there in a haughty, actorlike pose._ i know everything. with my wisdom i have penetrated the meaning of all things, the laws of numbers are known to me, and the book of fates is open to me. at one glance i embrace life, i am the axis in the circle of time, which whirls rapidly. i am great, i am mighty, i am immortal, and man is in my power. who will dare struggle with the devil? the strong, i kill, and the weak i force to whirl about in an intoxicating dance, a mad dance, a devilish dance. i have poisoned all the sources of life, on all its roads i have built ambuscades.... do you hear the voice of those who curse? the voice of those who are exhausted under the burden of evil? of those who dare in vain? of those who long endlessly and terribly? guardian. i do. anathema. _laughing._ the name! call the name! illumine the way for the devil and for man. all in the world want goodness, but know not where to find it; all in the world want fife, but meet only death. the name! call the name of goodness, call the name of eternal life. i am waiting! guardian. there is no name for that which you ask, anathema. there is no number by which to count, no measure by which to measure, no scales by which to weigh that which you ask, anathema. every one who has said the word, love, has lied. every one who has said the word, wisdom,--has lied. and even he who has uttered the word, god,--has lied with the greatest and most terrible lie. for there is no number, no measure, no scale, no name for that which you ask, anathema. anathema. where shall i go? tell me. guardian. where you are going. anathema. what shall i do? tell me. guardian. what you are doing. anathema. you speak through silence--can i understand the language of your silence? tell me. guardian. no. never. my face is open, but you see it not. my speech is loud, but you hear it not. my commands are clear, but you know them not, anathema. and you shall never see, and you shall never hear, and you shall never know, anathema, unfortunate spirit, deathless in numbers, eternally alive in measures and in weights, but as yet unborn to life. anathema. _tormented._ never? guardian. never. _anathema leaps down from the rocks, and tosses about madly, devoured by grief. clinging to the rocks, he embraces them tenderly and then pushes them away angrily; he moans bitterly. he turns his face to west and east, to north and south of the earth, flourishing his arms, as if calling the earth to wrath and vengeance. but the grey rocks are silent, west and east are silent, north and south are silent, and in stern motionlessness, heavily leaning on his sword, stands the guardian of the entrances._ anathema. rise, o earth! rise, o earth, and gird your sword, o man. there will be no peace between you and heaven; the earth is becoming the abode of darkness and death, and the prince of darkness ascends to his throne upon it--from now on and forever. i am going to you, david. i will hurl your sad life towards the proud heaven like a stone from a sling--and the foundations of the high heavens will tremble. my slave, david! with your lips i will proclaim the truth about the fate of man. _he turns to the guardian of the entrances._ and you!... _he becomes silent, bashfully, confused by the silence. he stretches himself lazily, as from tediousness, and mutters in a voice loud enough to be heard by the guardian of the entrances._ but am i not roaming about, because i have nothing to do? i have been here, and now i shall go there. are there not plenty of roads for the gay anathema, who is fond of healthy laughter and a carefree jest? six.... that means that i bring to david a fortune which he does not expect.... eight.... that means that david leizer is healing the sick and reviving the dead. twenty.... correct! that means ... that means that david and i come to express our gratitude. david leizer, the great, the powerful, the immortal david leizer and i.... i am going. _anathema departs._ _silence. the rocks are silent; the mute gates, pressing the earth with their enormous weight, are silent; the guardian, petrified, is silent._ _silence. but did not anathema's footsteps awaken an alarming, resounding echo? one, two--some heavy steps are heard coming. it is like one footstep, but many people are coming; they are silent, but the silence is already quivering. a momentary confusion of sounds, of helplessness and tremulous outbursts, and suddenly the silence breaks out in high yellow flames of fire: somewhere below, in the invisible distance, on earth, long trumpets, carried by hands uplifted high, are blaring in rebellious, brasslike tones,--their defiant cry of revolt is turned both to earth and to heaven._ _one, two,--now it is clear that a crowd is moving; its monstrous voice, its blended and separate sobs, its noisy and stormy speech is heard; and below, in the labyrinth from broken and dark passages, the first distinct sound rings out: "da-a-vid!" it grows more distinct, rises higher, and now it soars overhead_-_on the wings of this brass fanfare, above the heavy stamping of the marching feet._ _"da-a-vid! da-a-a-vid! da-a-a-vid!"_ _the sounds blend harmoniously. they become the song of millions of people. the trumpets are blaring, exhausted; they call hoarsely with their brass voices--_ _does the guardian of the entrances hear them? the grey rocks are covered with moans; passionate sobs rise to his feet, but the guardian is motionless, the guardian is speechless, and the iron gates are mute._ _the abyss crashes._ _with one blow, as if splitting the earth, a brass roar and shout breaks forth,--and out of the fragments, like a spring from a rock that is split by lightning, a soft, harmonious, bright melody comes forth._ _then it dies out._ _silence. immobility. expectation, expectation, expectation._ curtain act one _the south of russia. a hot summer midday. a wide road near the end of a large, thickly populated city. starting from the left corner of the stage, the road crosses it diagonally, turning in the rear of the stage to the right. two high stone posts, of ancient construction, dilapidated and slightly bent, indicate the boundary of the city. on the side of the city line, at the right post, there is a deserted, once yellow sentry-box, the plaster fallen of in spots and the windows tightly boarded and nailed up. on the sides of the road there are several small shops made of cheap wood, separated from one another by narrow passages--in the desperate and ineffectual struggle for existence the little shops seem to be clambering stupidly upon one another. the people are dealing in all sorts of merchandise: candies, sunflower seeds, cheap sausages, herrings; each shop has a small, dirty counter, through which a pipe with two faucets stands out prominently--one of them for soda-water, at a penny a glass,--the other for seltzer. one of the little shops belongs to david leizer; the others--to the greek purikes, to the young jewess sonka zitron, and to the russian, ivan bezkrainy, who, in addition to his business, mends shoes and rubbers; he is the only one who has "real noblemen's" cider for sale._ _the sun is burning mercilessly and the few small trees, with their leaves curled up from the heat, are pining for rain; the dusty road is deserted. beyond the posts, where the road is turning toward the right, there is a high precipice--the dust-covered tops of trees are seen here and there in the descending distance. and embracing the entire horizon, the sea has stretched itself in a smoky blue strip, sleeping peacefully in the heat and glare of the sun._ _sarah, david leizer's wife, an old jewess, exhausted by life, is seated in front of her little shop. she is mending some rags and is chatting languidly with the other shopkeepers._ sarah. no one is buying anything. no one is drinking any soda-water; no one is buying any sunflower seeds or any fine candies which melt in the mouth. purikes. _like an echo._ no one is buying anything. sarah. one might think that all the people have died so as not to buy anything. one might think that we remained alone with our stores in the whole world--we alone in the whole world. purikes. _like an echo._ we alone. bezkrainy. the sun has burnt all the customers--only the shopkeepers remained. _silence. the soft sobbing of sonka is heard._ bezkrainy. sonka, yesterday you bought a chicken. did you kill or rob anybody that you can afford to buy chickens? and if you are so rich and you hide your money, why do you deal here and hinder us from making a living? purikes. _like an echo._ and hinder us from making a living? bezkrainy. sonka, i am asking you,--is it true that you bought a chicken yesterday? don't lie, i know it from trustworthy people. _sonka maintains silence, weeping._ sarah. when a jew buys a chicken, it is because either the jew is sick or the chicken is sick. sonka zitron's son is dying; yesterday he commenced to die and to-day he will end it--the boy is tenacious and he is dying slowly. bezkrainy. why did she come here if her son is dying? sarah. because it is necessary to trade. purikes. it is necessary to trade. _sonka is weeping._ sarah. yesterday we ate nothing, we waited for to-day; and to-day we will eat nothing, waiting that to-morrow will bring us customers and happiness. happiness! who knows what is happiness? all people are equal before god, and yet one sells two cents' worth, while another sells thirty cents' worth. and one always two cents' worth, while the other always thirty cents' worth, and no one knows why happiness is given to a person. bezkrainy. i used to sell thirty cents' worth, and now i sell only two cents' worth. at that time i had no "noblemen's" cider, and now i have it, and yet i sell only two cents' worth now. luck is changeable! purikes. luck is changeable. sarah. yesterday my son naum came and asked me: "mother, where is father?" so i said to him: "what for do you want to know where father is? david leizer, your father, is a sick, unfortunate man, who is going to die soon; and he goes to the seashore to commune in solitude with god about his fate. don't disturb your father, he is going to die soon--you had better tell me what you want to say." and naum answered: "i will tell you, mother,--i am beginning to die!" that is what naum answered. when david leizer, my old husband, came home, i said to him: "you are still steadfast in your uprightness! blaspheme god and die! for your son naum is already beginning to die." _sonka is weeping more loudly._ purikes. _suddenly looks around, frightened._ but what--but what if people should stop buying things altogether? sarah. _frightened._ what do you mean? purikes. _with ever growing fear._ what if people should suddenly stop buying things altogether? what are we to do then? bezkrainy. _with alarm._ how is it possible that people should stop buying things altogether? that's impossible! sarah. that's impossible. purikes. it is possible. suddenly everybody may stop buying things. _all are seized with horror; even sonka stops weeping, and pale-faced, she surveys the deserted road with her frightened, dark eyes. the sun is burning mercilessly. anathema appears in the distance, at the turn of the road._ sarah. a customer! purikes. a customer! sonka. a customer! a customer! _she cries again. anathema comes nearer to them. notwithstanding the heat, he wears a black coat of fine cloth, a black silk hat, black gloves; only his necktie is white, lending a solemn air to his costume. he is tall, and, though grey-haired, straight and stately. the face of the accursed one is of a swarthy-grey color; his features are stern and of peculiar beauty. when anathema takes off his hat, his enormous forehead is revealed, furrowed by wrinkles. his head is unusually large and his greyish black hair is dishevelled. anathema's neck is wiry and strong, but it is rather thin and long, and in his nervous contortions he carries his head like a heavy weight, giving it the appearance of strange inquisitiveness, restlessness and malignity._ sarah. do you want perhaps a glass of soda-water, sir? it is as hot as in hell, and if you don't drink, you may die of a sunstroke. bezkrainy. real noblemen's cider! purikes. violet soda! my god, violet soda! sarah. soda, seltzer! bezkrainy. don't drink her soda-water. from her water rats are dying and roaches stand up on their hind legs. sarah. ivan, aren't you ashamed to take away a customer? i am not saying anything about your noblemen's cider, which is fit only for mad dogs to drink. purikes. _joyously._ a customer! a customer! please don't buy anything from me, you needn't buy anything from me,--all i want is to look at you. sonka, do you see? a buyer! sonka. i don't see anything. i can't see. _anathema lifts his hatband bows to all kindly._ anathema. thank you. i will drink a glass of soda-water with pleasure, and perhaps even a glass of your noblemen's cider. but i should like to know where david leizer's business place is. sarah. _surprised._ it is here. do you want david? i am his wife, sarah. anathema. yes, madam leizer, i want to see david, david leizer. sarah. _suspiciously._ you have come with bad news: david has no friends that wear clothes of such fine cloth as you wear. if that is so, you had better go away. david is not here, and i will not tell you where he is. anathema. _heartily._ oh, no, madam, don't be uneasy; i am not bringing you any bad news. but how pleasant it is to see such love.--do you love your husband very much, madam leizer? he must be a very strong and healthy man, earning much money. sarah. _frowning._ no, he is sick and old and unable to work. but he has not sinned against god or man in any way, and even his enemies dare not say anything bad about him. here is some seltzer, sir, it is better than soda. and if you are not afraid of the heat, i would ask you to sit down and wait a while; david will soon be here. anathema. _sitting down._ yes, i have heard many good things about your husband, but i did not know that he was so feeble and old. have you any children, madam leizer? sarah. we had six, but the first four died.... anathema. _nods his head compassionately._ sarah. yes, we lived miserably, sir. and we have only two left. our son naum.... bezkrainy. a good-for-nothing, who makes believe that he is sick and saunters about the city all day long. sarah. stop, ivan, aren't you ashamed to slander honest people? naum is going around because he has to get credit. then, sir, we have a daughter, and her name is rosa. but unfortunately she is too beautiful, too beautiful, sir. happiness what is happiness? one person dies of smallpox, while another person needs smallpox, but it would not come, and the face is as pure as a flower leaf. anathema. _feigning amazement._ why are you so sorry about it? beauty is a gift from god, which he has bestowed upon man, whom he has thus elevated and brought nearer to himself. sarah. who knows? it may be a gift from god, and it may be a gift from somebody else of whom i would not speak. but there is one thing i do not know; why has a man beautiful eyes, if he must hide them? why has he a white face, if he must cover it with soot and filth? beauty is a too dangerous treasure, for it is easier to hide money from a robber, than beauty from a wicked man. (_suspiciously._) did you come perhaps to see rosa? then you better go away,--rosa is not here, and i will not tell you where she is. purikes. a buyer. sarah, look, a buyer is here. sarah. yes, yes, purikes. but he will not buy that which he has come for, and he will not find that which he is seeking. _anathema smiles good-naturedly and listens attentively to the conversation; every time some one begins to speak, he stretches his neck and turns his head to the speaker, holding it slightly bent on one side. he makes grimaces like an actor, expressing now amazement, now sorrow or indignation. he laughs, inappropriately, thereby frightening and surprising the people._ bezkrainy. sarah, you are making a mistake in valuing your goods too highly and not selling when people are ready to buy. every article loses its value if you keep it too long. sarah _tearfully._ what a wicked man you are, ivan. i gave you credit for ten copecks, and you are forever slandering us. bezkrainy. don't pay any attention to me, sarah,--i am wicked because i am hungry. you, sir, in that black coat, go away: sarah is an honest woman and she will not sell her daughter to you, even if you offered her a million. sarah. _hotly._ that's right, ivan, thank you. but who told you, sir, that our rosa is beautiful? it is not true--don't laugh, it isn't true, she is as ugly as deadly sin. she is as filthy as a dog that has just crawled out of the coal-hole of a ship; her face is furrowed by smallpox and it looks like a field where people dig lime and sand; there is on her right eye a cataract as large as on an old horse. look at her hair--it is like faded wool, half torn away by birds; and when she walks, she stoops,--i swear to you, she stoops when she walks! if you take her, everybody will laugh at you, everybody will spit at you, the street urchins will give you no rest.... anathema. _surprised._ but, madam leizer, i have heard-sarah. _sorrowfully._ you have heard nothing! i swear to you, you have heard nothing. anathema. but you yourself-sarah. _imploringly._ have i said anything? my god, women are so talkative, sir; and they love their children so dearly that they always consider them beautiful. rosa--beautiful! (_laughs._) just think of it, purikes,--rosa is beautiful! _she laughs. rosa comes over from the direction of the city. her hair is disheveled, almost covering her black, flashing eyes; her face is smeared with something black, and she is dressed wretchedly. she walks with a youthful and stately gait, but on noticing the strange man, she stoops like an old woman._ sarah. here, here is rosa; look, sir! my god, how ugly she is. david cries every time he sees her. rosa. _offended, straightens herself._ there are uglier women than i am. sarah. _persuasively._ what are you saying, rosa? there is no uglier girl than you in the whole world. (_whispers entreatingly._) hide your beauty, rosa. a robber has come, rosa,--hide your beauty! at night i will wash your face myself, i will comb your braids myself, and you will be as beautiful as a heavenly angel, and we will all pray to you. a robber has come, rosa. (_aloud._) did they throw stones at you again? rosa. _hoarsely._ yes, they did. sarah. and the dogs attacked you, too? rosa. yes, they did.-sarah. so you see, sir? even the dogs! anathema. _in a friendly tone._ yes, it seems that i have made a mistake. to my regret, your daughter is really not pretty and it is painful to look at her. sarah. of course, there are uglier girls than she is, but--go, rosochka, go over there, take your work--what is there for a poor and ugly girl to do but work? go, my poor rosochka, go. _rosa takes some rags to mend and disappears behind the counter. silence._ anathema. is it long since you have this store, madam leizer? sarah. _calmed down._ thirty years already, ever since david became sick. a misfortune happened to him when he served in the army,--he was trampled by horses and they crushed his chest. anathema. was david a soldier? bezkrainy. _interposing._ david had an older brother, and he was a scoundrel, and his name was moses. sarah. _with a sigh._ and his name was moses. bezkrainy. and when the time came for moses to serve in the army, he ran off on an italian steamer. and david was taken in his place. sarah. _with a sigh._ david was taken. anathema. what injustice! bezkrainy. have you ever met justice in the world? anathema. of course i have. you are no doubt an unfortunate man, and everything appears to you in dark colors. but you will see, you will soon see, that justice does exist. (_freely._) the devil take it, i have nothing to do, so i always roam about the world, and i have not seen anything so plentiful as justice. how shall i say it, madam leizer? there is more justice on earth than fleas on a good dog. sarah. _smiling._ but what if it is just as hard to catch justice as to catch fleas.... bezkrainy. and what if it bites just as the fleas do? _all laugh. from the side of the city appears an organ-grinder, exhausted, half-blinded from dust and perspiration. he wants to pass by, but suddenly he pauses in despair, and begins to play a terrible tune._ sarah. pass on, please, pass on. we need no music. organ-grinder. _playing._ neither do i need it. sarah. we have nothing to give you. pass on. organ-grinder. _playing._ then i will die to the strains of music. anathema. _generously._ please, madam leizer, give him something to eat and water--i will pay for everything. sarah. what a kind-hearted man you are. go, musician, eat and drink. but for the water i will not take anything from you--let the water be mine. _the organ-grinder sits down and eats ravenously._ anathema. _friendly._ is it long you have been roaming over the world, musician? organ-grinder. _morosely,_ i used to have a monkey before--music and a monkey. the monkey was eaten up by the fleas, and my music box started to screech, and i am looking for a tree on which to hang myself. that is all. _a little girl runs in. she looks curiously at the organ-grinder, then turns to sonka._ little girl. sonka, ruzya died. sonka. already? little girl. yes, he died. may i take some seeds? sonka. _closing her store._ you may. sarah, if a customer comes, tell him that i will attend to business to-morrow again, otherwise he may think that my store is closed for good. have you heard it? ruzya died. sarah. already? little girl. yes, he died. is the musician going to play? _anathema whispers to sarah and puts something into her hand._ sarah. sonka, here is a rouble for you; you see, a rouble? bezkrainy. there is luck! yesterday a chicken, to-day a rouble. take it, sonka. _all look greedily upon the rouble. sonka and the little girl go out._ sarah. you are very rich, sir. anathema. _with self-satisfaction._ yes. i have a large practice--i am a lawyer. sarah. _quickly._ david has no debts. anathema. oh, i haven't come for that at all, madam leizer. when you know me better, you will see that i bring, but do not take, that i make gifts, but do not take them back. sarah. _with fear._ do you come from god? anathema. it would be too much honor for me and for you, madam leizer, if i came from god. no, i have come of my own accord. _naum comes over, looks at the customer with amazement, and sits down, exhausted, upon a rock. naum is a tall, thin young man, with a narrow chest and a large, pale nose. he looks around on all sides._ naum. where is rosa? sarah. _in a whisper._ not so loud,--she is there. (_aloud._) well, hew was it, naum? did you get any credit? naum. _slowly._ no, mother, i did not get any credit. i am beginning to die, mother,--everybody feels hot, while i am very cold; and i am perspiring, but my perspiration is cold. i met sonka--ruzya died already. sarah. you will live yet, naum, you will live yet. naum. _slowly._ yes, i will live yet. why isn't father coming? it is time for him to be here. sarah. clean a herring, rosa. this gentleman is waiting for david a long time already, and david isn't here. naum. what does he want? sarah. i don't know, naum. since he came, i suppose it was necessary. _silence._ naum. mother, i am not going for credit any more. i will go with father to the sea. the time has come when i must go and ask god about my fate. sarah. do not ask him, naum, do not ask. naum. i will ask him. sarah. _entreatingly._ don't do it, naum, don't ask. anathema. why not, madam leizer? do you fear that god will give him a bad answer? you should have more faith, madam leizer. if david heard you, he would not approve your words. organ-grinder. _raising his head._ is it you, young man, who wants to speak to god? naum. yes, it is i. every man can speak with god. organ-grinder. do you think so? then ask for a new organ. tell him that this one is screeching. anathema. _compassionately._ he might add that the monkey was eaten up by the fleas--that he needs a new monkey. _he laughs. all look at him in perplexity; the organ-grinder rises and takes up his organ silently._ sarah. what do you want to do, musician? organ-grinder. i want to play. sarah. what for? we don't need any music. organ-grinder. i must thank you for your kindness. _he plays something weird: the organ screeches, breaks off, wheezes. anathema, with eyes lifted dreamily to the sky, keeps time with his hand, and whistles._ sarah. my god, how badly it sounds. anathema. this, madam leizer (_whistles_),--this is called the world harmony. _the conversation dies away for some time: only the screeching of the organ and the whistling of anathema are heard. the sun is still shining mercilessly._ anathema. i have nothing to do, so i wander over the world. _he is carried away by the playing of the organ. suddenly the organ breaks off with a screech, which rings in the ears for a long time, and anathema remains as petrified with uplifted hand._ anathema. _perplexedly._ does it always end like this? organ-grinder. sometimes even worse. good-by. anathema. _feeling his vest pocket._ no, no, you mustn't go away like that.... you have afforded us genuine pleasure, and i do not want you to hang yourself. here is some change for you, and live on. sarah. _pleasantly surprised._ who could ever think, by looking at your face, that you are such a cheerful and kind-hearted man? anathema. _flattered._ oh, do not embarrass me with your praise, madam leizer. why shouldn't i help a poor man who would otherwise hang himself! the life of man is a precious thing, madam leizer,--and i always carry change with me.... but isn't that venerable man i see there david leizer? _he looks in the direction where the road turns to the right._ sarah. _also looking at the road._ yes, that is david. _all wait silently. on the dust-covered road appears david leizer, walking slowly. he is tall, bony, with long, grey locks and a grey beard; on his head he wears a high, black cap; in his hand a staff with which he seems to measure the road. he looks down from under his heavy eyebrows; and thus, without lifting his eyes, he advances slowly and seriously to the people, and stops, leaning upon the staff with both hands._ sarah. _rising respectfully._ where were you, david? david. _not lifting his eyes._ i was by the sea. sarah. what did you do there, david? david. i looked at the waves, sarah, and asked them whence they came and whither they were going. i was thinking of life, sarah--whence it came and whither it is going.... sarah. what did the waves tell you, david? david. they did not tell me anything, sarah.... they come and go away again, and the man by the sea is waiting in vain for an answer from the sea. sarah. with whom did you speak, david? david. i spoke with god, sarah. i asked him about the fate of david leizer, the poor jew who is going to die soon. sarah. _with emotion._ and what did god tell you? _david is silent, his eyes lowered._ sarah. our son naum also wants to go with you to the sea and ask about his fate. david. _lifting his eyes._ is naum going to die soon? naum. yes, father,--i have already commenced to die. anathema. but, pardon me, gentlemen.... why should you speak of death, since i have brought you life and happiness? david. _turning his head to him._ do you come from god? sarah, who is he who dares to speak like this? sarah. i don't know. he has been waiting for you a long time. anathema. _bustling about joyously._ oh, ladies and gentlemen, smile. attention for one minute and i will make you all laugh. attention, gentlemen. attention! _all look with tense attention at anathema's mouth._ anathema. _taking out a paper, solemnly._ are you not david leizer, the son of abraham leizer? leizer. _frightened._ well, yes, i am. but there may be another david leizer. i don't know--ask the people. anathema. _interrupting him with a gesture._ didn't you have a brother, moses leizer, who fled to america thirty-five years ago on the italian steamship _fortuna?_ all. yes, he did. david. but i did not know that he was in america. anathema. david leizer, your brother moses died! _silence._ david. i have long forgiven him. anathema. and before he died he bequeathed all his fortune, amounting to two million dollars (_to the people surrounding him_), which means four million roubles,--to you, david leizer. _a deep sigh goes through the crowd and all seem as petrified._ anathema. _outstretching the paper._ here is the document, you see--the seal. david. _pushing the paper aside._ no, don't! don't do that! you were not sent by god. god would not make sport of man in this way. anathema. _heartily._ this is not a jest. upon my honor, it is the truth,--four millions. allow me to be the first to congratulate you and to shake your honest hand warmly. (_takes david leizer's hand and shakes it._) well, madam leizer, what have i brought you? and what will you say now? is your daughter rosa beautiful now or is she ugly? aha! are you going to die so soon, naum? aha! (_tearfully_.) that's what i have brought you, people, and now permit me to step aside--and not to disturb you- _lifts a handkerchief to his eyes and steps aside, apparently agitated._ sarah. _wildly._ rosa! rosa. _also wildly._ what is it, mamma? sarah. wash your face! wash your face, rosa! my god, quicker, quicker,--wash your face! _as though insane, she drags rosa, washes her, splashing the water with trembling hands. naum clings to his father's arm, hanging on to it, as though he is about to lose consciousness._ david. take back your paper! (_firmly._) take back your paper! sarah. have you lost your mind, david? don't listen to him. wash yourself, rosochka, wash yourself! let all the people see your beauty! naum. _seizing the paper._ it is ours, father. father,--this is how god has answered you. look at mother, look at rosa--look at me: i was already commencing to die. purikes. _shouts._ ai, ai, look out, they'll tear the paper. ai, ai, take away the paper from them, quick! _naum cries, rosa, radiantly beautiful, her hair wet, but no longer covering her eyes, comes over to her father, laughing._ rosa. it is i, father! it is i! it is--i! sarah. _wildly._ where were you, rosa? rosa. i wasn't--i've just been born, mamma! sarah. see, david, see--a human being has just been born! oh, look at her, every one of you! oh, open the doors of your vision, throw open the gates of your eyes--look at her, every one of you! _suddenly david realizes the meaning of what has happened. he throws his cap from his head, tears his clothing, which seems to suffocate him, and pushing everybody aside, rushes to anathema._ david. _sternly._ why have you brought this? anathema. _meekly._ but, pardon me, mr. leizer, i am only a lawyer. i am sincerely glad. david. why have you brought this? _he pushes anathema aside, and reeling, goes to the road. suddenly he stops, turns around and shouts, flourishing his hands._ david. i drive him away--that is the devil. do you think he brought me four million roubles? no, he brought me four million insults. four million mockeries he hurled upon the head of david ... four oceans of bitter tears have i shed over life, my sighs were four winds of the earth, my four children were devoured by hunger and diseases--and now, when i must die, he brings me four millions. will they return to me my youth which i passed in privation, oppressed with grief, wrapped with sorrows, crowned with anguish? will they repay me for one day of my starvation, one tear that fell upon a rock, one insult hurled at my face? four million curses--that's what your four million roubles are--oh, hannah, oh, benjamin, and raphael, and my little moishe,--you, my little birdies, who died of hunger upon the naked branches of winter--what will you say if your father should touch this money? no, i don't need any money. i am telling you--i, an old jew, dying of hunger. i don't need any money. i don't see god in this. but i shall go to him, i shall tell him: what are you doing with david?--i am going. _goes away, brandishing his hands._ sarah. _crying._ david, come back, come back. purikes. _in despair._ the paper, pick up the paper. anathema. _turns around._ calm yourself, madam leizer, he will come back. it is always thus at first. i have wandered a great deal over the world and i know it. the blood rushes to the head, the feet begin to quiver, and man curses. that's nonsense! rosa. what a crooked mirror, mother! naum. _cries._ mamma, where is father going? i want to live. anathema. throw away that piece of glass, rosa. mankind will reflect your beauty, the world will reflect your beauty--you will see yourself in the world.... ah, you are still here, musician. play something for us, please. such a holiday must not pass without music! organ-grinder. shall i play the same? anathema. the same. _the organ wails and wheezes. anathema whistles furiously, waving his hands, as though blessing everybody with the music and the whistling._ curtain. act two. _david leizer lives richly. at the urgent request of his wife and his children he has hired a rich villa, by the sea-shore, engaged numerous servants, bought horses and carriages. anathema, under the pretext that he had grown tired of his law practice, remained with david as his private secretary. rosa is taking lessons in languages and deportment. naum, who has grown very sick, near to death, is learning how to dance. the money has not yet arrived from america, but to david leizer, the millionaire, a large credit has been extended._ _the stage represents a rich parlor, white marble here and there, with large italian windows and a door leading to a veranda. it is midday. beyond the open windows, semi-tropical plants are visible, and the deep blue sea in the distance; through one of the windows, a view of the city is seen._ _david leizer is seated by the table, greatly depressed. a short distance away, on a divan, sarah is seated, dressed richly, but without taste; she watches naum learning how to dance. naum is very pale, he coughs and almost falls from weakness, especially when, according to the rules of the dance, he must stand on one foot; but he is studying diligently! he is dressed rather richly, but his bright-colored vest and necktie spoil the elegance of his appearance. near naum, the dancing-master, with a fiddle and how, is hustling about, balancing himself, rising up and down. he is a man of unusual refinement and grace; he wears a white vest, patent-leather slippers, and a smoking jacket. and anathema, standing at the veranda door, looks upon all this with an air of sadness and reproach._ dancing-master. one--two--three; one--two--three. sarah. look, david, see how successful our naum is in his dancing. i could not hop like that for anything? poor boy! david. i see. dancing-master. monsieur naum is very talented. please, one-two--three; one--two--three. pardon me, pardon me, this isn't exactly right. you must make the step more precise, neatly rounding the motion of the right foot. this way--this way. _shows him how to do it._ madam leizer, dancing is quite like mathematics, a circle is necessary. sarah. do you hear, david? david. i hear. dancing-master. please, monsieur naum. one--two--three. _plays on his violin._ naum. _out of breath._ one, two, three. one, two, three. one, two, three. _he turns around, and then, suddenly, almost falls down. he stops. his face is exhausted, deathly pale; he is seized with a fit of coughing. then he resumes dancing._ naum, one, two, three. dancing-master. that's the way, that's the way, monsieur naum. please, more neatly! more neatly, please! one, two, three. _he plays. anathema walks over to sarah cautiously and says in a low voice, yet loud enough to be heard by david:_ anathema. madam leizer, does it not seem to you that naum is rather tired? this dancing-master knows no mercy. david. _turning around._ yes, it is enough. sarah, you are willing to torture the boy. sarah. _confusedly._ what have i to do with it, david? don't i see that he is tired, but he wants to dance? naum, naum! david. enough, naum! take a rest. naum. _out of breath._ i want to dance. _stops and stamps his foot hysterically._ why am i not allowed to dance? or do you all want me to die soon? sarah. you will live yet, naum. you will live yet. naum. _almost crying._ why don't they allow me to dance? i want to dance. i have looked for credit long enough, i want to amuse myself. am i an old man to be in bed and cough there? cough! cough! _he coughs and cries simultaneously. anathema whispers something to the dancing-master, who expresses compassion, nods his head, and prepares to go._ dancing-master. until to-morrow, monsieur naum. i am afraid that our lesson was a little too long. naum. to-morrow--don't fail to come to-morrow. do you hear? i want to dance. _the dancing-master goes out, bowing. naum follows him._ naum. to-morrow, without fail. do you hear? without fail. _they go out._ anathema. what are you thinking of, david? allow me to be not only your private secretary--although i am proud of this honor--but also your friend. since the time when you received the money you are oppressed by a dark sorrow, and it pains me to look at you. david. what is there that i should rejoice over, nullius? sarah. and rosa? do not sin against god, david! do not our eyes rest upon her beauty and youth? before even the silent moon dared not look at her, one star dared not whisper about her to any other star,--while now she is riding about in a carriage, and everybody looks at her, and horsemen gallop after her. just think of it, nullius, horsemen gallop after her! david. and naum? sarah. what about naum? he has long been ill, you know it, and death upon a soft bed is not worse than death upon the pavement. and perhaps he will live yet, he will live yet (_cries._) david, abraham khessin and sonka's girl are waiting for you in the yard. david. _morosely._ what do they want, money? sarah, give them a few pennies and let them go. sarah. in the end they will draw out all the money we have, nullius. i have given to khessin twice already. he is like sand,--no matter how much water you pour into it, it is always dry and greedy. david. nonsense! we have too much money, sarah. but it pains me to look at the people, nullius. since the time when you brought us this fortune-anathema. which you earned by your sufferings, leizer. david. since that time, the people have changed so much for the worse. you like to have the people bow to you very low, nullius? i do not like it--human beings are not dogs that they should crawl on their bellies. and you like to have the people tell you, nullius, that you are the wisest, the most magnanimous, the best of all living beings--whereas you are only an ordinary old jew, like many another jew. i do not like it, nullius,--for the sons of the god of truth and mercy it is unbecoming to lie, even while dying of the cruelties of truth. anathema. _thoughtfully._ riches are a terrible power, leizer. no one asks you where your money came from; they see your might and they worship it. david. might? and naum? and i, nullius? can i buy for all the money even a single day of health and life? anathema. you look considerably fresher now. david. _smiling gloomily._ yes? should i, perhaps, also engage a dancing-master? what do you advise me, nullius? sarah. don't forget rosa, father. is it not a great sin against god to hide the beauty of the face? it is given as a joy and a pleasure to the eyes; god himself reveals his beauty in a beautiful face, and did we not lift our hands against god himself when we stained our rosa's face with coal and soot, when we made her terrible and sorrowful to look upon? david. beauty is withering. everything is dying, sarah. sarah. but the lily also withers, and the narcissus dies, the petals of the yellow rose fall apart--would you, david, trample all flowers under foot and heap abuse upon the yellow rose? do not doubt, david,--the god of righteousness has given you riches--will you who were so firm in misfortune that you did not blaspheme god even once--will you grow weak in your happiness? anathema. you are perfectly right, madam leizer. rosa has so many suitors that all she needs is to choose. david. _rising angrily._ i will not give rosa to any of them. sarah. why not, david? david. i will not give rosa to any of them. they are like dogs that want to eat out of the golden bowl--i will drive the dogs away. _enter rosa. she is dressed richly, but simply. she is somewhat pale and fatigued, but very beautiful. she tries to speak and to move gracefully, but at times she forgets herself and becomes rude and vociferous. she feds tormented by this. rosa is accompanied by two horsemen. the older man is very pale and he frowns angrily. naum clings to rosa, as though seeking protection in her youth, strength, and beauty, and he walks faintly after her._ david. _in a rather loud voice._ sarah, here are the suitors. sarah. _waving her hand._ oh, be silent, david. rosa. _kissing her mother carelessly._ how tired i am, mamma. good afternoon, father. sarah. take care of yourself, rosochka; you mustn't study so much. _to the older of the two cavaliers._ please tell her that she mustn't work so hard--what does she need to work for now? young rider. _in a low voice._ people should pray before your daughter, madam leizer. soon a temple will be erected in her honor. older rider. _smiling._ and near the temple, a cemetery. madam leizer, there are always cemeteries near the temples. rosa. good-by. i am tired. if you are disengaged, come in to-morrow morning--i may go out with you again. older rider. _shrugging his shoulders._ disengaged? oh, yes, of course, we are entirely free. _harshly._ good-by. young rider. _with a sigh._ good-by. _they go out._ sarah. _uneasily._ rosochka, i think you have offended him. why did you do it? rosa. that doesn't matter, mamma. anathema. _to david._ these are not suitors, david. _david laughs morosely. anathema runs over to rosa and offers her his arm. he leads her, half-dancing, merrily whistling the same tune that the organ had played._ anathema. oh, rosa, were it not for my age (_whistles_) and not for my illness (_whistles_), i would be the first to ask your hand. rosa. _laughing haughtily._ better illness than death. david. you are a very gay man, nullius. anathema. _whistling._ the absence of wealth and, then, a clear conscience, david, a clear conscience. i have nothing to do, so i walk arm in arm with rosa. you spoke of death, rosa? rosa. yes. anathema. _stopping._ you are indeed beautiful, rosa. _thoughtfully._ and what if.... if.... but no; duty above all. listen to me, rosa: don't give yourself away to any one less than a prince, even though the prince of darkness. naum. rosochka, why did you go away from me? i feel cold when you do not hold my hand. hold my hand, rosochka. rosa. _hesitating._ but i must go to change my dress, naum. naum. i will accompany you as far as your room. you know, i danced again to-day and danced very well. i am not so short of breath now any longer. _with a feeling of adoration and slight envy._ how beautiful you are, rosochka! sarah. wait, rosochka, i will comb your hair myself. will you allow me? rosa. you do it very badly, mamma; you kiss it more than you comb it--my hair gets entangled from your kisses. david. is that how you answer your mother, rosa? rosa. _stopping._ why do you despise my beauty, father? david. before, i used to love your beauty, rosa. sarah. _with indignation._ what did you say, david? david. yes, sarah. i love the pearl when it is on the bottom of the sea; but after it is taken out of the sea, it becomes blood--and then i do not like pearls, sarah. rosa. why do you despise my beauty, father? do you know what another girl in my place would have done? she would have lost her mind and would have whirled about on earth like a dog that swallowed a pin. but what am i doing? i am studying, father. i am studying by day and night, father. _in great agitation._ i don't know anything. i don't know how to speak, i don't even know how to walk--i stoop, i stoop as i walk. sarah. that isn't true, rosa. rosa. _agitated._ here i have forgotten myself for a while, and i am shouting, i am croaking hoarsely, like a crow that has caught cold. i want to be beautiful--that's what i was born for. you laugh? it is in vain. do you know that your daughter will be a duchess, a princess? i want to add a scepter to my crown! anathema. oho! _all three go out. david jumps from his seat angrily and paces the room quickly._ david. what a comedy, nullius! yesterday she begged heaven for a herring, and to-day a crown is not enough for her. to-morrow she will take the throne away from satan and will sit upon it, nullius, and she will sit firmly! what a comedy! _anathema has changed the expression of his face; he is stern and morose._ anathema. no, david leizer, it is a tragedy. david. 'tis a comedy, nullius, a comedy. don't you hear the laughter of satan in all this? _pointing at the door._ you saw a corpse dancing--i see it every morning. anathema. is naum so dangerously ill? david. dangerously ill? three physicians, three serious gentlemen, examined him yesterday and told me quietly that in a month from now naum will die, that he is already more than half a corpse. and every morning i see in this white marble parlor a corpse jumping to the tune of music--is it not a dream, nullius? is it not the laughter of satan? anathema. and what did they say about your health, david? david. i did not ask them. i don't want them to tell me. you may also jump to the tune of music, david. how would you like it, nullius: two corpses dancing in a white marble hall? _he laughs bitterly._ anathema. you frighten me, my friend. what is going on within your soul? david. do not touch my soul, nullius--there is horror in it! _clasps his head._ oh! what shall i do? what shall i do? i am alone in the whole world. anathema. what ails you, david? calm yourself. david. _stopping before anathema, horror-stricken._ death, nullius, death! you have brought us death. was i not mute before the face of death? did i not wait for it as for a friend? but here you have brought us riches--and i want to dance. i want to dance, yet death clutches at my heart; i want to eat, for hunger has entered my very bones,--but my old stomach refuses to accept any food; i want to laugh, but my face is sobbing, my eyes are weeping, and my soul is crying with mortal fear. hunger has crept into my bones, and poison is already in my blood--there is no salvation for me; death has overtaken me. anathema. _significantly._ the poor are waiting for you, david. david. what matters it? anathema. the poor are waiting for you, david. david. the poor are always waiting. anathema. _sternly._ now i see that you are really lost, david. god has forsaken you. _david stops and looks at him, surprised and angry. anathema, with head thrown back haughtily, meets his look calmly and sternly. silence._ david. you say this to me, nullius? anathema. yes, i say this to you, david leizer. beware, david leizer, you are in satan's hands. david. _terrified._ nullius, my friend, you frighten me. what have i done to deserve your anger and these cruel, terrible words of yours? you have always treated me and my children so kindly.... your hair is just as grey as mine, in your face i have long observed a hidden grief, and--i respect you, nullius! why are you silent? a terrible fire is burning in your eyes.--who are you, nullius? but you are silent.--no, no, do not lower your eyes, i am even more terrified when they are lowered, for then upon your brow appear fiery letters of some vague--of some terrible--fatal truth. anathema. _tenderly._ david! david. _joyously._ you have started to speak, nullius. anathema. be silent and listen to me. from madness i will bring you back to wisdom, from death to life. david. i am silent and i am listening. anathema. your madness consists of this, david leizer,--you have sought for god all your life, and when god came to you, you said: "i do not know you." your death consists of this, david leizer,--blinded by misfortunes, like a horse that is turning around in the darkness, you failed to notice the people and you remained in their midst alone, with your illness and your riches. there in the yard life is waiting for you--and you, blind man, you close the door against it. dance, david, dance,-death has lifted the bow and is waiting for you. be more graceful, david leizer, more graceful; round out your steps more neatly! david. what do you want of me? anathema. return to god that which god has given to you. david. _darkly._ has god given me anything? anathema. every rouble in your pocket is a knife which you thrust into the heart of the hungry. distribute your fortune to the poor, give bread to the hungry, and you will conquer death. david. no one gave a crust of bread to david when he was hungry. by satisfying their hunger, will i still the hunger that is in my bones? anathema. in them your own hunger will be stilled. david. shall i get back my health and my strength? anathema. in them you will be strong. david. shall i drive out death, already in my blood, which is as thin as water, which is already in my veins, that have become hard like dried-up cords? shall i recover life? anathema. by their life you will prolong your life. now you have but one heart, david,--but then you will have a million hearts. david. but i shall die! anathema. no, you will be immortal! _david retreats in horror._ david. your lips have uttered a terrible word. who are you that you dare promise immortality? are not life and death in the hand of god? anathema. god said: reestablish life through life. david. but people are wicked and vicious, and the hungry one is nearer to god than the well-fed. anathema. remember hannah and benjamin.... david. be silent! anathema. remember raphael and little moishe.... david. _grief-stricken._ be silent, be silent! anathema. remember your little birds who died upon the cold branches of winter- _david cries utterly._ anathema. when the lark sings in the blue sky, will you say to it: "be silent, little bird, god does not need your song"--and will you not give a kernel to it when it is hungry? and will you not cover it upon your breast when it is cold, that it may feel warm and save its voice for spring? who are you, then, unfortunate man, who has no pity on birds and who turns children out into the storm? remember how your little moishe died. remember, david, and say: "the people are vicious, wicked, and unworthy of my kindness!" _david bends his knees as under a heavy weight and lifts his hands, as though warding off from his head a blow from the sky. he speaks hoarsely._ david. adenoi! adenoi! _anathema, with arms folded on his breast, looks at him in silence._ david. mercy! mercy! anathema. _quickly._ david, the poor are waiting for you. they will go away soon. david. no, no! anathema. the poor are always waiting, but they grow tired of waiting and they go away. david. they will not go away from me. oh, nullius, nullius!... oh, wise nullius! oh, foolish nullius! is it possible that you did not understand that i have long been waiting for the poor and that their voice is in my ears and in my heart? when wheels are riding along a dust-covered road, on which rain had just fallen, they think as they turn and leave a trace: here we are making a road. but the road was there before, nullius, the road was there before! _gayly._ call the poor over to me. anathema. consider, david, whom you are calling. _darkly._ do not deceive me, david. david i have never deceived any one, nullius. _resolutely and majestically._ you spoke and i was silent, and i listened; now be silent and listen to me: i have given my soul not to man but to god, and his power is over me. and i command you: call my wife sarah over here, and my children naum and rosa, and all the people in my household, whoever they may be. anathema. _obediently._ i shall call them. david. and call the poor who are waiting for me in the yard. and when you go out on the street, see whether there are any poor people waiting for me, and if you see them, call them also. for my lips are burning with their thirst, their hunger torments my body with insatiable hunger, and i am hastening to announce to the people my last, unchangeable will. go! anathema. _obediently._ your will is upon me. _anathema goes to the door. silence._ david. the spirit of god has come over me. adenoi. adenoi.... who was the terrible one that spoke through the voice of old nullius, when he spoke about my little children who died? only an arrow out of the bow of the omniscient strikes the very heart with such good aim. my little birds.... verily, you have saved me upon the edge of the abyss, and you have torn my spirit away from the clutches of the devil. he who looks straight at the sun may grow blind, but with the lapse of time the light may come back to the revived eyes; but he who looks into darkness grows blind forever. my little birds.... _suddenly he laughs softly and joyously, and he whispers._ i myself shall bring them bread and milk, i shall hide myself behind the bed-curtain that they should not see me--children are so tender and easily frightened and they are afraid of unfamiliar people; and i have such a terrible beard. (_laughs._) i shall hide myself behind the bed-curtain and will watch how the children are eating. they need so little; they eat a little crust of bread and they have enough; they drink a cup of milk and they know no thirst any longer. then they sing--but how strange! does not the night pass away when the sun comes? do not the waves, at the end of the storm, lie down calmly and quietly like lambs resting in the pasture? whence came the alarm, the slight confusion, and the fear? shades of unknown woes are passing over my soul and soaring noiselessly over my thoughts. ah, if i remained poor, if i remained unknown, under the shade of the fence where the refuse is cast away! you have lifted me to the peak of the mountain and you show my old, sorrowful face to the world. but such is your will. you will command--and the lamb will become a lion; you will command--and the furious lion will stretch out her powerful breasts to her little ones; you will command--and david leizer, who has grown white in shade, will fearlessly rise to the sun. adenoi! adenoi! _sarah, naum, and rosa enter, alarmed._ sarah. david, what is it you have called us for? and why was your nullius so strict when he told us of your command? we have not sinned against you, and if we have sinned, investigate it, but do not look at us so sternly. rosa. may i sit down? david. be silent and wait. all those whom i have called are not here yet. be seated, rosa, if you are tired, but when the time comes, rise. you, too, may sit down, naum. _the servants enter irresolutely; a lackey, resembling an english minister; a chamber-maid; a cook; a gardener; a dish-washer, and others. they move about in confusion. soon about fifteen or twenty poor people enter, in groups. among them are: abraham khessin, an old man; sonka's girl; joseph kritsky, sarah lepke, and several other jews and jewesses. but there are also greeks, and little russians, and russians and other paupers whose nationality has been lost in rags and filth; two drunkards. purikes, ivan bezkrainy, and the organ-grinder, with the same outworn instrument, are also here. but anathema is still away._ david. please, please. come in more boldly, don't stop at the threshold,--others are coming behind you. but it would be well if you wiped your feet first; this rich house is not mine, and i must return it as clean as when i took it. khessin. we have not yet learned how to walk on rugs, and we have not yet any patent leather shoes, as your son naum has. how do you do, david leizer? peace be upon your house. david. peace unto you, too, abraham. but why do you call me david leizer, when you used to call me simply david before? khessin. you are now such a mighty man, david leizer. yes, i used to call you merely david before, but here i was waiting for you in the yard, and the longer i waited, the longer your name grew, mr. david leizer. david. you are right, abraham: when the sun sets, the shadows become longer, and when a man becomes smaller, his name grows longer. but wait another while, abraham. lackey. _to drunkard._ you better move away from me. drunkard. keep quiet, fool! you are a servant here, while we are the guests. lackey. ruffian! you aren't in a car here, that you spit on the floor. drunkard. mr. leizer, a certain man, who looked like an old devil, caught me by the collar and said: "david leizer, who received an inheritance, is calling you." i asked him, "what for?" so he answered: "david wants to make you his heir," and he began to laugh. and now that i came here, your servant is chasing me away. david. _smiling._ nullius is a gay man and he never misses an opportunity for jesting. but you are my guest, and i ask you to wait. sarah. _after some hesitancy._ well, how is your business getting along, ivan? you have fewer competitors now. bezkrainy. it's bad, sarah; we have no customers. purikes. _like an echo._ no customers. sarah. _compassionately._ ai--ai--ai! it's bad, if there are no customers. rosa. don't speak, mamma. do you want, perhaps, to smear my face again with soot? _pushing several paupers into the door, anathema enters, apparently fatigued._ anathema. well, david, meanwhile receive these. your millions frighten the poor, and nobody wanted to follow me, thinking that some deception is hidden here. drunkard. this is the man who caught me by the collar. anathema. ah, is that you? how do you do? how do you do? david. thank you, nullius. now take ink and paper and sit down near me, by the table; bring me my old counting-board.... as everything i am about to say is very important, i ask you to write it correctly and to make no errors--we shall give an account of every word before god. i ask you all to rise and listen attentively, striving to understand the great words which i am about to utter. _sternly._ rise, rosa. sarah. god, have mercy on us! what are you going to do, david? david. be silent, sarah. you will come with me. anathema. ready. _all listen, standing._ david. _solemnly._ upon the death of my brother, moses leizer, i received an inheritance (_on the counting-board_) of two million dollars. anathema. _nervously, lifting four fingers._ which means four million roubles. david. _sternly._ do not interrupt me, nullius. yes, it does mean four million roubles. and now, submitting to the voice of my conscience and the command of god, and also in memory of my children, hannah, benjamin, raphael, and moses, who died of hunger and disease in their childhood.... _he lowers his head and weeps bitterly. sarah also cries bitterly._ sarah. oh, my little moishe! david, david, our little moishe is dead. david. _wiping his eyes with a large red handkerchief._ be silent, sarah. what was i going to say to them, nullius?... well, write, nullius, write. i know. _firmly._ i have resolved, in accordance with the command of god, who is truth and mercy, to distribute all my possessions to the poor. am i speaking properly, nullius? anathema. i hear god in your words. _at first no one believes david; but soon joyous doubts and unexpected fear come over them. as though in sleep the people repeat: "four millions, four millions!" and they hide their faces with their hands. the organ-grinder comes forward._ organ-grinder. _morosely._ will you buy me a new organ, david? anathema. hush, musician! back! organ-grinder. _retreating._ i want also a new monkey. david. let your hearts rejoice, o unfortunate people, and with a smile on your lips answer the mercy of heaven. go from here to the city, like heralds of happiness,--go through all its streets and squares, and shout everywhere: "david leizer, the old jew, who is to die soon, received an inheritance and now distributes it among the poor." and if you will see a man weeping, and a child whose face is bloodless and whose eyes are dim, and a woman whose breasts are shrunken like those of an old goat,--tell them also: "go, david is calling you." do i speak properly, nullius? anathema. yes, yes. but have you called all those who should be called? david. and if you should see an intoxicated man slumbering amidst his vomitings, wake him and tell him: "go, david is calling you." and if you should see a thief thrashed in the market-place by those he had robbed, call him also, with words of kindness, yet firm enough to be regarded as a command: "go, david is calling you." and if you should see people who in their misery have become irritated and furious and who are beating one another with sticks and bits of brick, announce to them also in words of peace: "go, david is calling you." and if you should see a bashful man, who while walking in the wide street lowers his eyes before the eyes of others, but who stares greedily when no one looks at him, tell him also in a low voice, without offending his pride: "are you not looking for david? go, he has long been waiting for you." and if in the evening, when the devil sows the seeds of night over the earth, you should see a woman, hideously painted, just as the heathen paint the bodies of their dead, and who stares boldly, for she has lost all shame, and who lifts her shoulders, for fear of a blow, tell her also: "go, david is calling you." do i speak properly, nullius? anathema. yes, david. but have you called all who should be called? david. and whatever form of aversion or fear poverty may assume, and in whatever colors misery may paint itself, and by whatever words suffering may fence itself around, rouse with a loud call those who are fatigued, in words of life return life to those who are dying! do not trust the silence and the darkness if they obstruct your way like a wall: shout more loudly into the silence and the darkness, for there dwells unspeakable horror. anathema. that's right, david, that's right! i see how your spirit climbs to the peak of the mountain and how you knock loudly at the iron gates of eternity: open! i love you, david, i kiss your hand, david,--like a dog i am ready to crawl before you and to obey your commandments. call, david, call! rise, o earth! north and south, east and west, i command you, by the will of david, my master, answer the call of him who calls you, and stop at his feet like four oceans of tears. call, david, call! david. _lifting his hands._ north and south.... anathema. east and west.... david. david is calling you all. anathema. david is calling you all. _confusion, tears, laughter,--for all believe him now. anathema kisses david's hand, springing about delightedly. he drags the organ-grinder by the collar to the center._ anathema. look, david, here's a musician! _laughs and shakes the organ-grinder._ so you don't want your old music, eh? you need a new monkey, eh? perhaps you will ask for a powder that destroys the fleas? ask; we shall give you everything. david. be quiet, nullius, be quiet. we must work. you are an expert at counting, nullius, are you not? anathema. i? oh, rabbi david! i am myself numbers, i am myself--measures and weights. david. be seated, then; write and count. but there is one more thing, my dear children: i am an old jew, who can divide a piece of garlic into ten portions. i know not only the need of man, but i saw also how a roach was starving--yes,--i saw also how small children died of hunger.... _lowers his head and heaves a deep sigh._ therefore do not deceive me, and remember that there is a number and a measure for everything. and where ten copecks are needed, do not ask for twenty, and where one measure of grain is needed, do not ask for two, for what is superfluous for one is always essential to another. like brothers having one mother whose breasts are full but are quickly exhausted, do not abuse one another, and do not offend the generous but careful mother.... you may begin. nullius, is everything ready? anathema. you may begin. i am waiting, david. david. stand in line, then, i beg you. i have not received the money yet; it is still in america, but i shall write down exactly how much each one of you is to get according to his need. sarah. david, david, what are you doing with us? look at rosa, look at poor naum. _naum is dumfounded--he wants to say something, but is unable; he clutches the air with outstretched fingers. a little distance away from him, alone in her youth, strength, and beauty, amidst all these poor people, with emaciated faces and flat breasts, stands rosa, who looks at her father defiantly._ rosa. are we less your children than these who have been picked up in the street? and are we not brother and sister to those who died? david. rosa is right, mother,--everybody will get the proper share. rosa. yes? but do you know, father, what is the proper share for everybody? _she laughs bitterly and wants to go away._ david. _gently and sadly._ stay here, rosa! rosa. i have nothing to do here. i have heard you call everybody.... oh, you called very loudly! ... but did you call the beautiful? i have nothing to do here. _goes out._ sarah. _rising irresolutely._ rosochka!... david. _as gently as before, with a smile._ stay here, mother. where will you go? you will come with me. _naum makes a few steps after rosa, then he returns and sits down near sarah._ david. ready, nullius? come over, then, honorable man, you who stand first in the line. khessin. _advancing._ here i am, david. david. what is your name? khessin. my name is abraham khessin.... but have you forgotten my name? you and i played together when we were children. david. hush! it is necessary for the sake of maintaining order, abraham. write the name clearly, nullius. this is the first who waited for me and upon whom the will of my god has manifested itself. anathema. _writes carefully._ number one.... i'll rule the paper later, david. number one: abraham khessin.... naum. _in a low voice._ mamma, i will not dance any more. curtain. act three _the same dust-covered road, with the bent posts and the old, deserted sentinel-box; the same little shops. the sun is burning as mercilessly as when anathema first appeared there._ _a large number of poor people are gathered there to welcome david leizer, who had distributed his fortune among the poor. the air is rent by shouting, motion, and merry bustling. purikes, bezkrainy, and sonka, happy now, and proud of their shops, are doing a brisk business in soda-water and candies. sarah leizer is sitting as before near her little shop, dressed neatly but poorly._ _a solemn welcome is arranged for david and anathema, who had gone to the seashore. all the little shops, even the posts and the deserted sentinel-box, are decorated with parti-colored rags and with branches of trees; on the right side of the road, upon the scorched grass, an orchestra is preparing to meet david--several jews with various instruments, among which there are: a good violin, cymbals, a broken brass trumpet, and even a drum, slightly broken. the members of the orchestra are scolding one another criticizing each other's instruments._ _there are a number of children in the crowd. also, little babes in arms. abraham khessin and those who were in line when david started to distribute his money are there; a little distance away from the crowd stands the stern organ-grinder, with his organ._ young jew. _blowing his crushed trumpet._ but why does it play only on one side? such a good trumpet. violinist. _agitated._ what do you want to do with me? how can you welcome david leizer with such a trumpet? you might as well have brought along a cat and pulled her by the tail, and think that david would call you his son? young jew. _obstinately._ it's a good trumpet. my father played it when he was in the army, and everybody was thankful to him. violinist. your father played it, but who sat upon it? why is it so crushed? how can you welcome david leizer with such a crushed trumpet? young jew. _with tears._ it's a very good trumpet. violinist. _to a clean-shaven old man._ is that your drum? tell me, do you seriously believe that this is a drum? have you ever seen another drum with a hole big enough for a dog to crawl through? khessin. don't get excited, leibke. you are a very talented man, and your music will be fine, and david leizer will be greatly moved by it. violinist. but i can't bear it. you are a very honorable man, abraham khessin, you have lived long in the world, but have you ever seen such a big hole in a drum? khessin. no, leibke, i haven't seen such a big hole, but that is not at all important. david leizer was a multimillionaire, he had twenty million roubles, but he is unspoiled and humble, and your love will afford him joy. does the soul need a drum to be able to express its love? i see here people who have neither drums nor trumpets, and who weep for happiness--their tears are noiseless like the dew.--rise higher, leibke, rise a little higher to the sky, and you will not hear any drums there, but therefore you will hear the tears falling. old man. you mustn't quarrel and darken the days of bright happiness,--that would be disagreeable to david. _a wanderer is listening to their conversation; his face is stern and swarthy. his hair and his clothes are covered with dust. he is guarded in his movements, but his eyes, lustreless, stare ahead fixedly, like open windows at night._ wanderer. he has brought peace and happiness on earth, and the whole world knows of him already. i have come from distant places, where the people are different from you, and where the customs are different from yours, and only in their suffering and their misery they are your brethren. and there they know already about david leizer, who distributes bread and happiness, and they bless his name. khessin. do you hear, sarah? _wiping his eyes._ it is of your husband they are speaking, of david leizer. sarah. i hear, abraham, i hear everything. but i hear no longer the voice of naum who died; i hear no longer the voice of rosa. old man, you have wandered much over the world, and you know even the people that do not resemble us,--have you not met on the road a beautiful girl, the most beautiful of all girls on earth? bezkrainy. she had a daughter, rosa, a beautiful girl, she ran away from home because she would not give up her share to the poor. did she take much money along with her, sarah? sarah. can there be such a thing as too much money for rosa? you may as well say that there are too many diamonds in the czar's crown and too many rays in the sun. wanderer. no, i have not seen your daughter: i am traveling along the highways, and there you can see neither the rich nor the beautiful. sarah. but perhaps you have seen people gathered, talking enthusiastically about a certain beautiful girl? that is my daughter, old man. wanderer. no, i have not seen such people. but i have seen other people gathered, speaking about david leizer, who is distributing bread and happiness. is it true that your david has healed a woman who was suffering from an incurable disease and was already dying? khessin. _smiling._ no, that is not true. wanderer. is it true that david restored sight to a man who was blind from the day of his birth? khessin. _shaking his head._ no, that is not true. some one has been deceiving the people who do not resemble us. only god can perform miracles--david leizer is only a kind-hearted and worthy man, such as all men who have not forgotten god should be. purikes. it is not true, abraham khessin. david is not an ordinary man, and he possesses a superhuman power. i know it. _the crowd that surrounded them is eagerly listening to purikes._ purikes. i saw with my own eyes, how the one we regarded as a customer came upon the deserted, sunny road, but he was not a customer. i saw with my own eyes how he touched david with his hand, and david started to speak so terribly that i could not listen to him. do you remember it, ivan? bezkrainy. that's true. david is not an ordinary man. sonka. does an ordinary man throw money at people, like stones at a dog? does an ordinary man go to weep over the grave of another's child, whom he did not bring forth, whom he did not fondle, and whom he did not bury when death came? woman. _with child in her arms._ david is not an ordinary man. who ever saw an ordinary man who was more a mother to a child than his own mother? who hides behind the bed-curtain and watches how other people's children are eating, and who weeps for joy at the sight of them? of whom even the tiniest children are not afraid, and they play with his venerable beard as with the beard of their grandfather? did not the stupid little rubin tear out a tuft of grey hair from david leizer's venerable beard? did david grow angry? did he cry out for pain, did he stamp his feet? no, he began to laugh as if overcome with happiness, and he cried as though for joy. drunkard. david is not an ordinary man. he is a queer fellow. i said to him: "why do you give me money? it is true, i am barefooted and unwashed, but do not think that i will buy boots and soap for the money you give me. i'll spend it on drink in the nearest dram-shop." that's what i had to tell him, for although i am a drunkard, i am an honest man. and the queer david answered me jestingly, like a good-natured lunatic: "semyon, if it pleases you to drink, please drink,--i have not come to teach the people but to bring them joy." old jew. there are many teachers, but there is none to bring them joy. may god bless david who brings joy to mankind. bezkrainy. _to the drunkard._ so you didn't buy any boots, did you? drunkard. no, i am an honest man. violinist. _in despair._ well, tell me all, you who have any conscience: is this the kind of music that should greet him who brings joy to mankind? i am ashamed that i have gotten together such a poor orchestra, and i would rather die than disgrace myself before david. sarah. _to the organ-grinder._ will you also play? you have such a fine organ now that even angels might dance to your music. organ-grinder. i will. sarah. but why have you no monkey? organ-grinder. i couldn't find a good monkey. all the monkeys i have seen are either old, or mean, or altogether untalented, and are even unable to catch fleas. the fleas have already destroyed one of my monkeys, and i don't want another monkey destroyed that way. a monkey needs talent, just like a man,--it isn't enough to have a tail, even to be a monkey. _the wanderer is questioning khessin in a low voice._ wanderer. tell me the truth, jew: i was sent here by my people, and i walked many miles on my old legs, under the mercilessly scorching sun, for the purpose of learning the truth. who is this david who brings joy to mankind. let it be as you say that he does not heal the sick.... khessin. it is a sin and an offence against god to think that a human being can heal. wanderer. be it so. but is it not true that leizer wants to build an enormous palace of white stone and blue glass and gather together all the poor of the world there? khessin. _in embarrassment._ i do not know. is it possible to build such a large palace? wanderer. _with conviction._ it is possible. is it true that he wants to take away the power from the rich and bestow it upon the poor? (_in a whisper._) and to take the power from those who rule, the might from those who are in command, and distribute it among all the people on earth, giving an equal share to each of them? khessin. i do not know _timidly._ you frighten me, old man. wanderer. _looking around cautiously._ and is it true that he has already sent heralds to the black people that they, too, shall prepare themselves to accept the new kingdom, for he wants to bestow the power equally upon the black as upon the white, giving to each one according to his desire. (_in a mysterious whisper._) in accordance with justice. _on the road appears david leizer, walking slowly; in his right hand, a staff; anathema is holding his left arm reverently. there is agitation and confusion among the waiting crowd: the musicians rush for their instruments; the women pick up their children quickly. they shout: "he's coming! he's coming!" they call: "moishe, petya, sarah!"_ wanderer. and is it true.... khessin. ask him. here he is coming. _noticing the crowd, anathema stops david, who is absorbed in thought, and he points triumphantly to the people. thus they stand for some time: david with his grey head thrown back, and anathema clinging close to him. anathema whispers something in david's ear and keeps on pointing with his left hand. leibke, bustling about desperately, gets his orchestra together and they begin to play a lively wild tune which is as discordant as the fluttering parti-colored rags. shouting, laughter, the children are rushing forward, some one is crying; many people are outstretching their hands prayerfully to david. then david moves forward amidst this chaos of lively sounds. the crowd makes room for him to pass; many throw branches and twigs on the ground and spread their clothes before him; women tear of their head-dress and throw it at his feet on the dusty road. thus he walks over to sarah, who rises and welcomes him together with the other women. the music stops. but david is silent. confusion._ khessin. why are you silent, david? the people you have made happy are greeting you and spreading their clothing before you on the ground, for their love is great and their hearts cannot comprise all their joy. say a word to them--they are waiting. _david remains standing, with lowered eyes; with both hands he is leaning on his staff; his face is stern and serious. anathema looks at him, over his shoulder, with alarm._ anathema. they are waiting for you, david. say unto them a word of joy and calm their love. _david is silent._ woman. why are you silent, david? you frighten us. are you not the david who brings joy to mankind? anathema. _impatiently._ speak, david. their agitated ears are waiting for a word of joy and by your silence, which is like the dumbness of the rock, you crush their soul to the earth. speak! david. _lifting his eyes and surveying the crowd sternly._ wherefore these honors and the noise of voices, and the music which plays so loudly? to whom do you render honors worthy of a prince or of one who has performed a great deed? is it before me, before a poor old man who must die soon, that you spread out your clothes upon the ground? what have i done to deserve your delight and exultation, to force tears of senseless joy from your eyes? i gave you money and bread--but that was the money of the uppermost, it came from him and went back to him through you. the only thing i have done was not to hide the money like a thief, i did not become a plunderer, like those who have forgotten god. do i speak properly, nullius? anathema. no, david, no. your speech is not worthy of a wise man and it does not come forth from the lips of a humble man. old man. bread without love is like grass without salt,--the stomach may be filled, but it leaves a bad taste in the mouth, and a bitter recollection. david. have i forgotten anything, nullius? remind me, my friend: i am old and my eyesight is poor, but do i not see musicians there, nullius? tell me! do i not see flags as red as the tongues of crows over my head? tell me, nullius. anathema. you have forgotten the people, david. you do not see the children, david leizer. david. the children? _the women, weeping, hold out their children to david._ voices. "bless my son, david!" ... "touch my little girl with your hand, david." "bless." ... "touch her with your hand." ... david. _raising his hands heavenward._ oh, hannah, oh, benjamin, oh, raphael, and my little moishe!... _looks down, outstretching his arms to the children._ david. oh, my little birds who died on the naked branches of the winter!... oh, children, my children, little children, tiny children!... well, nullius, am i not weeping? am i not weeping, nullius? well, let everybody weep. let the musicians play, nullius--i understand everything now. oh, children, little children, i gave you all, i gave you my old heart, i gave you my sorrow and my joy--did i not give them all my soul, nullius? _crying and laughing through tears._ you have again wrenched my soul from the jaws of sin, nullius. on the day of rejoicing i appeared mournful before the people, on the day of the people's exultation i did not raise my eyes to heaven, but lowered them to the ground,--bad old man that i am. whom did i want to deceive with my insincerity? do i not live by day and night in raptures of joy, and do i not draw love and happiness with full hands? why have i feigned sadness?... i do not know your name, woman; give me your child, the one that is laughing when everybody is crying, because he alone is sensible. _smiling through tears._ or are you perhaps afraid that i will steal it like a gypsy? _the woman kneels and holds out her child._ woman. take it, david! everything belongs to you,--we and our children. second woman. take mine, too, david! third woman. mine, mine! david. _takes the child and presses it to his breast, covering it with his grey beard._ hush!... it's my beard! oh, what a terrible beard! but never fear, my little one, press to me more closely and laugh--you are the wisest of all. sarah, my wife, come over here. sarah. _weeping._ i am here. david. let us step aside for a while. woman, i will return the child to you, i will only hold it for a while.... come, sarah, let us step aside. before you i am not ashamed to cry, be they tears of sorrow or tears of joy. _they step aside and cry softly. only their stooping backs are seen, and david's red handkerchief with which he wipes his eyes, and the tear-stained face of the child._ voices. hush! hush! they are crying. don't disturb their crying. hush! hush! _anathema, on tiptoe, whispers: "hush, hush!" then he goes over to the musicians and speaks to them in a low voice, conducting with his hand. little by little the noise grows louder. bezkrainy, purikes, and sonka are waiting, holding filled glasses in their hands._ david. _returns and wipes his eyes with his kerchief._ here is your child, woman. we don't like him at all, do we, sarah? sarah. _weeping._ we have no children any longer, david. david. _smiling._ no, no, sarah! but are not all the children in the world our children? he has no children who has three, six, or even twelve, but not he who knows not their number. sonka. drink a glass of soda-water, honorable david leizer--it is your water. purikes. drink a glass of mine, david,--this will bring me customers. bezkrainy. drink a glass of noblemen's cider, david. now it is real noblemen's cider. i can say it frankly; with your money everything is becoming real. sarah. _through tears._ i have always told you that your cider was bad, ivan. and now, when it is real cider, you do not offer it to me. bezkrainy. oh, sarah.... david. she is jesting, ivan. thank you, but i cannot drink so much,--i will taste everybody's. it's very, very good water, sonka. you have discovered the secret and you will soon grow rich. sonka. i put a little more soda into the water, david. wanderer. _to anathema, in a law voice._ is it true--you are a close friend of david leizer's, and you can tell it to me--is it true that he wants to build-anathema. why so loud? let us step aside. _they speak in a whisper. anathema shakes his head negatively. he is truthful. he smiles and pats the old man on the shoulder. the old man evidently does not believe him. then anathema gradually leads the musicians away, also the organ-grinder and the people beyond the stone pillars. only the sound of their voices, their exclamations, their laughter are heard. a few remain and speak with david reverently._ khessin. is it true, david, that you and sarah are going to jerusalem, to the holy city, of which we can only dream? david. yes, it is true, abraham. although i am stronger now and i feel no longer any pain in my chest-khessin. but that is a miracle, david! david. joy restores health, abraham, and the serving of god strengthens a man. but after all, sarah and i cannot live much longer, and we should like to rest our eyes upon the wonderful beauty of god's land. but why do you address me as a stranger, old friend? have you not yet forgiven me? khessin. _frightened._ oh, do not say that, david! if you were to tell me: call me "thou" or kill yourself, i would rather kill myself, but would not say "thou" to you. you are not an ordinary man, david. david. i am not an ordinary man. i am a happy man. but where is the gay man nullius? i don't see him. i suppose he is preparing some prank or another--i know him. there is a man who does not darken the face of the earth with gloom, abraham, who is never averse to laughter, which is to life like dew upon grass, and which sparkles in many colors in the rays of the sun. of course he is playing his pranks; do you hear? _music is playing beyond the pillars; the organ, together with the orchestra, is playing the same tune it had played before. the sounds are discordant, somewhat wild, but strangely gay. together with the music the crowd appears in a solemn procession. at the head of the procession, side by side with the organ-grinder, walks anathema, as if dancing. he carries the organ on a strap and turns the handle with one hand, keeping time with the other hand, whistling shrilly, and casting glances on all sides and skyward. the musicians and the poor, now gay, follow him. on passing david, anathema bends his head toward him and keeps on playing and whistling. david, smiling, nods his head and adjusts his grey, long beard. the procession disappears._ sarah. _with emotion._ what beautiful music! how fine, how solemn, david! david, is all this for you? david. for us, sarah. sarah. what am i? i can only love our children. but you, but you- _with certain fear._ you are not an ordinary man, david. david. _smiling._ so, so.... well, what am i, then,--a governor? or, perhaps, a general? sarah. do not make light of this, david. you are not an ordinary man. _the wanderer, who stood near by all the time and saw the solemn procession, now listens to sarah's words and nods his head. anathema, gay, somewhat out of breath, appears._ anathema. how was it, david? i think it was not bad. they marched very well--better than i expected. only that stupid trumpet. _dancing, he passes david again, whistling. then he bursts into laughter._ david. _good-naturedly._ yes, nullius. the music was very good. i never before heard such fine music. i thank you, nullius,--you have afforded great pleasure to the people by your gayety. anathema. _to the wanderer._ did you like it, old man? wanderer. i liked it fairly well. but what will happen when all the nations on earth will bend at the feet of david leizer? anathema. _astonished._ what is he saying, nullius? anathema. oh, david, it is very touching: the people are in love with you, even as a bride is in love with the bridegroom. this wonderful man, who has come thousands of miles-wanderer. more. anathema. asked me: "does david leizer perform miracles?" well,... i laughed, i laughed. khessin. he asked me, too, but to me it was not laughable. the ear of him who waits is keen,--even the stones seem to sing to him. wanderer. only the footsteps of the blind are short, but their thoughts are long. _he steps aside and, watches david. it is near sunset and the earth is in the embrace of shadows. abraham khessin bids david farewell and goes away. the shopkeepers prepare to close their shops. silence and peace._ anathema. _breathing with difficulty._ at last. we have worked quite hard, david--the trumpet alone (_closes his ears_)--what is that worth? (_candidly_) my misfortune is that my ear is keen, unbearably sharp, almost--yes, almost like that of a dog. if i hear-david. i am very tired, nullius, and i want to rest. i do not feel like seeing any more people to-day, and you will not be offended, my old friend-anathema. i understand. i will only escort you to your palace. david. yes, yes, to my palace. according to my contract, i am king for six months more. come, sarah,--with you alone i want to pass the remainder of this great day in peace and joy. sarah. you are not an ordinary man, david. how did you guess my desire? _they go away towards the pillars. david pauses, looks back, and says, leaning upon sarah's shoulder:_ david. look, sarah; this is the place where our life has passed--how sad and poor it is, sarah, and it breathes of the homelessness of the desert. but was not it here, sarah, that i learned the great truth concerning the fate of man? i was poor, alone, and near death, a foolish old man, seeking an answer from the waves. but now people have come--am i alone now? am i poor and near death? listen to me, nullius; there is no death for man. what death is there? what is death? who was the mournful one that invented this strange word--death?--perhaps it does exist, i do not know--but i, nullius--i am immortal. _as though struck, he lends down, but lifts his arms upward._ oh, how terrible it is: i am immortal! where is the end of the sky? i have lost it. i am immortal! oh, the breast of man aches from immortality, and his joy bums him like a fire. where is the end of man?--i am immortal. adenoi! adenoi! blessed be the mysterious name of him who has given immortality to man, forever and aye. anathema. _hastily._ the name! the name! do you know the name? you have deceived me. david. _not listening to him._ i give the spirit of man over to the boundless space of time. may it five immortally, in the immortality of fire. may it live immortally in the immortality of light, which is life. and may darkness stop before the dwelling of immortal light. i am happy, i am immortal--o my god! anathema. _ecstatically._ it is a lie! oh, how long yet will i listen to this foolish man? north and south, east and west, i am calling you. quicker, come here, to the aid of the devil! rush over here in four oceans of tears and bury man in your abyss. come here! this way! _no one heeds anathema's sobs, neither david, radiant with the ecstasy of immortality, nor sarah, nor the other people, who listen attentively to david. anathema moves restlessly about, alone, cursing. a shrill voice is heard; a woman, terribly painted, rushes in from the road. her clothes are torn, and her beautiful face is disfigured. she screams and sobs and calls wildly._ woman. my god! where is david, who is distributing his fortune? two days and two nights, two days and two nights, i have been looking for him all over the city, but the houses are silent and the people are laughing. tell me, kind people, have you not seen david, who brings joy to the people? do not look upon my open bosom--a wicked man tore my clothes and scratched my face. oh, do not look upon my open bosom: it never knew the happiness of feeding innocent lips. wanderer. david is here. woman. _falling on her knees._ david is here? oh, have pity on me, people! do not deceive me; i am blinded by deceit, and falsehoods have made me deaf. do i hear right? is david here? bezkrainy. yes, there he stands. but you are too late--he has already distributed all his fortune. purines. he has already distributed all his fortune. woman. what are you doing to me, people? two days and two nights i have been looking for him--the people deceived me, and now i am too late. i will die on the way now--i have nowhere else to go. _tearfully, flings herself about on the dust-covered road._ anathema. it seems that somebody has come to you, david. david. _advancing._ what does this woman wish? woman. _without lifting her head._ are you david, who has brought joy to mankind? wanderer. yes, it is he. david. yes, it is i. woman. _without lifting her head._ i do not dare glance at you. you must be like the sun. _gently and trustfully._ oh, david, how long i have been looking for you!... the people kept deceiving me all the time. they told me that you went away, that you do not exist at all, and that you never existed. one man said to me that he was david, and he seemed to be kind, but he treated me like a robber. david. rise! woman. permit me to rest here, at your feet. like a bird that has crossed the sea, i am beaten by the rain, i am exhausted by the storms, i am tired to death. _weeps; continues trustfully._ now i am calm, now i am happy: i am at the feet of david, who has brought joy to mankind. david. _irresolutely._ but you have come too late, woman. i have already given away everything i had, and i have nothing left. anathema. yes. we have distributed all the money. go home, woman,--we have nothing left. we feel sorry for you, but you are too late. do you understand? you are too late,--only this morning we gave away the last penny. david. don't be so cruel, nullius. anathema. but it is the truth, david. woman. _doubtingly._ that is impossible! _lifting her eyes._ are you david? how kind-hearted you are. did you say that i am too late? no, he said it--his face is mean. david, please give me some money and save me. i am tired to death. and your name is sarah? you are his wife? i have heard about you, too. _crawls over to her and kisses her dress._ woman. plead for me, sarah. sarah. _weeping._ give her some money, david. get up, my dear; it is very dusty here--you have such beautiful black hair. sit down here, and rest yourself. david will soon give you money. _lifts the woman and seats her near herself upon a rock, and caresses her._ david. what shall i do? _confusedly; wiping his face with a red kerchief._ what shall i do, nullius? you are such a wise man,--help me. anathema. _outstretching his arms._ by god, i do not know. here is the list--we have not a cent, and i am an honest lawyer, not a counterfeiter. i can't bring you every day an inheritance from america. _whistles._ i have nothing to do, so i roam about the world. david. _indignantly._ that is cruel, nullius. i did not expect it from you. but what shall i do? what shall i do? _anathema shrugs his shoulders._ sarah. sit here, my dear; i will come back soon. david, let us step aside; i must tell you something. _they step aside and whisper._ anathema. did they beat you hard, woman? evidently the man who was beating you was not skillful--he did not knock your eyes out, as he wanted to do. woman. _covering her face with her hair._ do not look upon me! sarah. nullius, come over here. anathema. _goes to her._ here i am, madam leizer. david. _in a low voice._ how much money have we for our journey to jerusalem? anathema. three hundred roubles. david. give it to the woman. _smiling and crying._ sarah does not want to go to jerusalem. she wants to continue in business here until death comes. what a foolish woman, nullius, isn't she? _cries restrainedly._ sarah. does that cause you much pain, david? were you so eager to go? david. what a foolish woman, nullius. she does not understand that i also want to remain in business here. _cries._ anathema. _moved._ you are not an ordinary man, david. david. it was my dream, nullius, to die in the holy city and to join my dust to the dust of the righteous people buried there. but (_he smiles_) is not the ground everywhere kind to its dead? give the money to the poor woman. well, sarah, how shall it be? we must open a store and learn from sonka how to make good soda-water. anathema. _triumphantly._ woman, david, who has brought joy to mankind, gives you money and happiness. bezkrainy. _to sonka._ i told you that he has not distributed all his money. he has millions. wanderer. _listening._ that's right. how could david give away everything? he only started to give away. _the woman thanks david and sarah; he places his hands upon her head, as though blessing her. behind him, from the side of the field, something grey appears, dust-covered, moving slowly. they move silently, and it is hard to discern at first that they are human beings. the grey dust has equalized them--their distress and their suffering have made them brethren. there is something alarming in their dull, inflexible movement--and the people look upon them uneasily._ bezkrainy. who is coming there on the road? sonka. something grey is crawling along the road. if they are human beings, they do not look like human beings. purikes. oh, i am afraid for david. he stands with his back toward them, and does not see them. and they are coming like blind people. sonka. they will soon crush him. david, david, turn around and look. anathema. it is too late, sonka,--david can't hear you now. purikes. but who is that? i am afraid of them. wanderer. these are our people! these are blind people from our land,--they have come to david for their eyesight. _loudly._ stop, stop! you have reached your destination. david is in your midst. _the blind, almost crushing the frightened david, pause and seek him with their fingers._ the blind. where is david? help us to find david. where is david, who brings joy to mankind? he is here. i feel him already with my fingers. are you david? where is david? where is david? are you david? david. _frightened voices come out of the darkness._ it is i--i am david leizer. what is it you wish of me? sarah. _weeping._ david! david! i don't see you. david, david, where are you? the blind. _closing in around him._ here is david. are you david? curtain. act four _a large, high, somewhat dark room--david's study in the rich villa where he spends his last days. two large windows in the room: one overlooking the road to the city; the other, on the left, overlooking the garden. near this window, a large writing-table, covered with papers in disorder--sheets of paper of various sizes, and large books. under the table, and near it, paper torn into small bits. a large bible, bound in old leather, lies on the floor, open, with its back upward, resembling the roof of a house which is falling apart. notwithstanding the heal, there is a fire in the fireplace. david leizer feels cold and feverish._ _it is growing dark. through the lowered blinds, faint sunlight comes in, but it is already dark in the room. only the small lamp on the table brings out into bold relief the white heads of david and anathema._ _david is sitting by the table. his hair and beard, unkempt for some time, lend him a savage and terrible appearance; his face is emaciated, his eyes are wide open; clasping his head with both hands, he stares fixedly through his large spectacles, examines a paper, throws it aside, takes up another paper, and nervously turns the leaves of a heavy volume._ _anathema stands near him, holding the back of his arm-chair. he is motionless, thoughtful, and stern._ _the windows are closed, but through the dosed windows comes the muffled noise of many voices. it increases slowly, wavering in force and impassionateness. those who had been called by david are now besieging his house. silence._ david. it has crumbled away into dust; nullius! the mountain that reached the sky has split into rocks, the rocks have turned into dust, and the wind has carried the dust away. where is the mountain, nullius? where are the millions which you brought me? here i have been looking for an hour through my papers for one copeck, only one copeck, that i may give it to him who asks for it, but i cannot find it. what is lying around there? anathema. the bible. david. no, no, i mean there, among the papers. let me have it. i think it is an account i haven't examined yet. that would be good luck, nullius! _stares intently._ no, it is all crossed out here. look, nullius, look! a hundred, then fifty, then twenty,--and then one copeck. but i cannot take this copeck away from him, can i? anathema. six, eight, twenty,--correct. david. no, no, nullius,--one hundred, fifty--twenty,--one copeck. it has all melted away, it slipped through my fingers like water. and the fingers are dry already--and i feel cold, nullius! anathema. it is warm here. david. i say it is cold here, nullius. throw some logs of wood into the fireplace.... no, wait. how much does a log cost? oh, it costs a great deal; put it away, nullius,--this accursed fire is devouring wood so quickly, as though it did not know that every log of wood is--a life. wait, nullius.... you have a splendid memory, you never forget anything, like a book--don't you remember how much i designated for abraham khessin? anathema. at first, five hundred. david. yes, yes, nullius, of course,--he is an old friend of mine; we used to play together. and for a friend five hundred is not much at all. of course, he is an old friend of mine, and i must have pitied him and left to him more than to the others in the end--for our friendship is such a tender feeling, nullius. but it is bad if a man wrongs strangers and distant people on account of a friend--for they have no friends or protection. and we will cut down abraham khessin's allowance, we will cut it down just a little bit.... _with fear._ tell me, how much have i now allowed for abraham? anathema. one copeck. david. impossible! tell me that you have made an error! have pity on me, and tell me that you have made an error, nullius! it cannot be--abraham is my friend--we used to play together. do you understand what it means when children play together, and then they grow up and they have grey beards, and they smile together at the past? you have also a grey beard, nullius. anathema. yes, my beard is grey. you allowed one copeck for khessin. david. _takes anathema by the arm; in a whisper._ but she said that her child would die, nullius,--that he is dying already. understand me, my old friend, i must have money. you are such a fine man, you are (_pats his arm_) such a kind man, you remember everything, like a book,--search a little more. anathema. bethink yourself, david; your reason is betraying you. it is already two days that you have been sitting here at this table, looking for that which is no more. go out to the people who are waiting for you, tell them that you have nothing left, and dismiss them. _angrily._ david. but did i not go out ten times already to the people and did i not tell them that i have nothing left? did a single one of them go away? they stand and wait there, and they are firm in their misery, like a rock, obstinate like the child at the mother's breast. does a child ask whether there is milk in the mother's breast? when i speak, they are silent and they listen to me like reasonable people; but when i become silent, the spirit of despair and want seizes upon them and wails in a thousand voices. did i not give everything away to them, nullius? did i not cry out all my tears? did i not give them away all the blood of my heart? what are they waiting for, nullius? what do they want of the poor jew, who has already exhausted his life?... anathema. they are waiting for a miracle, david. david. _rising, with fear._ be silent, nullius, be silent,--you are tempting god. who am i that i should perform miracles? bethink yourself, nullius. can i make two copecks of one? can i come over to the mountains and say: "mountains of the earth, turn into mountains of bread and satisfy the hunger of the hungry"? can i come over to the ocean and say: "sea of water as salty as tears, turn into a sea of milk and honey and quench the thirst of the thirsty"? think of it, nullius! anathema. did you see the blind? david. only once did i dare lift my eyes,--but i saw strange, grey people, into whose eyes some one had spat something white, and they feel the air as if it were a danger, and they fear the earth as though it were a horror. what do they want, nullius? anathema. did you see the sick and the maimed, with organs of the body missing,--did you see them crawl on the ground? out of the pores of the earth they come like a perspiration of blood--the earth is of them. david. be silent, nullius. anathema. did you see people who are devoured by their conscience: their face is dark, as though scorched by fire, and their eyes are surrounded with white rings, and they run about in a circle like mad horses? did you see people who look straight ahead, and in their hands they hold long staffs for measuring the road? these are the people searching after truth. david. i dared not look any further. anathema. did you hear the voice of the earth, david? _enter sarah; she advances to david timidly._ david. is that you, sarah? shut the door tightly, do not leave a crevice behind you. what is it you wish, sarah? sarah. _with fear and faith._ are you not entirely prepared yet, david? make haste and go out to the people: they are tired of waiting and many of them fear death. dismiss these, for others are coming, david, and soon there will be no place for a man to stand. the water has already given out in the fountains and they are not bringing any bread from the city, as you have ordered, david. david. _uplifting his hands; horrified._ awaken, sarah, sleep has enmeshed you in nets of cunning and your heart is poisoned with the madness of love. it is i, david!... _with fear._ and i did not command to bring bread. sarah. if you are not quite ready, david, they can wait. but order lamps lighted and give bedding for the women and the children,--for night will soon set in and the earth will grow cold. and order them to give milk to the children--they are starved. there, in the distance, we have heard the sound of innumerable footsteps: are those not herds of cows and goats, full of milk, driven here at your command? david. _hoarsely._ oh, my god, my god!... anathema. _in a low voice, to sarah._ go away, sarah: david is praying. do not disturb his prayer. _sarah goes away timidly and cautiously._ david. mercy! mercy! _the noise outside the windows subsides. suddenly it is heard again: sarah had notified them that they must wait._ david. mercy! mercy! anathema. _in a commanding tone._ david be a man in the face of the great fear. did you not call them here? did you not call loudly, in a voice of love, to the silence and the darkness where unspeakable horror dwells? and now they have come to you--north and south, east and west, and like four oceans of tears they have stretched themselves at your feet. rise, david! david. what shall i do, nullius? anathema. tell them the truth. david. what shall i do, nullius? shall i perhaps take a rope and, hanging it upon a tree, strangle myself like the one who had once betrayed? am i, perhaps, a traitor, having called them and not given anything to them, and loving them in order to destroy them? oh, how my heart is aching!... oh, how my heart is aching, nullius! oh, i feel as cold as the ground that is covered with ice, and within it there is heat and white flame. oh, nullius, have you seen the white flame on which the moon turns dark and the sun burns like yellow straw? _he tosses about._ hide me, nullius. is there not a dark room, where the light does not penetrate? are there not strong walls through which i would not hear these voices? whither are they calling me? i am a sick old man, i cannot endure and suffer so long--i myself had small children, and did they not die? what were their names, nullius? i have forgotten. who is it they call david, the man who has brought joy to mankind? anathema. that was your name, david leizer. you are deceived, leizer. you are deceived even as i am deceived! david. _with entreaty._ protect me, nullius. go out to them and tell them aloud, so they all can hear: "david leizer is a sick old man, and he has nothing left." they will listen to you, nullius,--you have such a respectful appearance,--and they will return to their homes. anathema. yes, yes, david. you see the truth already, and you will soon proclaim it to the people. ha, ha! who said that david leizer could perform miracles? david. _folding his arms._ yes, yes, nullius. anathema. who dares demand miracles of leizer? is he not a sick old man,--mortal like all the rest? david. yes, yes, nullius,--a man. anathema. did not love deceive leizer? it said to him: "i shall do everything,"--and it raised only dust on the road like the blind wind from behind a corner, which bursts in noisily and lies down quietly, which blinds the eyes and stirs up the dust. let us go, then, to him who gave love to david, and ask him: "wherefore did you deceive our brother david?" david. yes, yes, nullius! of what good is love to man if it is powerless? of what good is life if there is no immortality? anathema. _rapidly._ go out and tell this to them,--they will listen to you. they will lift their voice to heaven--and we shall hear the answer of heaven, david! tell them the truth and you will stir up the earth. david. i am going, nullius. and i will tell them the truth--i have never lied. open the doors, nullius. _anathema quickly throws the door open and respectfully allows david to pass to the balcony. david walks slowly, with an air of importance. then anathema closes the door behind david. the noise suddenly subsides, a deathlike silence sets in, and david's quivering voice is heard faintly. anathema dances about the room in a fit of ecstasy._ anathema. ah! you would not listen to me,--now listen to them. ah! you forced me to crawl on my belly like a dog. you would not permit me to glimpse even through a crevice!... you laughed at me in your silence!... you tortured me by your motionlessness. listen, then, and answer, if you can. it is not the devil who speaks to you, it is not the son of dawn who raises his voice,--it is man, it is your favorite son, your care, your love, your tenderness, and your proud hope, that is wriggling under your foot like a worm. well? you are silent? lie to him by your thunder, deceive him with your lightning,--how dares he look into the heavens? let him, like anathema? _wailing._ the poor, offended anathema, who is crawling on his belly like a dog.... _furiously._ let man crawl back again to his dark hole, let him decay in silence, bury himself in gloom, where unspeakable horror dwells. _a myriad-voiced sound is heard from outside the windows._ anathema. do you hear? _sarcastically._ it is not i. it is they. six, eight, twenty-correct. it is always correct with the devil.... _the door opens and david, horror-stricken, runs in. a shout is heard behind him. david closes the door and holds it with his shoulder._ david. help, nullius! they will soon break in--the door is not strong; they will break it. anathema. what do they say? david. they do not believe me, nullius. they ask for a miracle. but do the dead also shout?--i saw the dead they have brought here. anathema. _furiously._ then lie to them, jew! _david goes away from, the door and says mysteriously, with confusion and fear:_ david. do you know, nullius, something is going on within me,--i have nothing,--but here i went out to them, i saw them and suddenly i felt that it is not true--i do have something. and i spoke, but i did not believe it myself; i spoke, and yet i felt that i stood with them and shouted against myself, and demanded angrily.... with my lips i declare that i have nothing,'and with my heart i promise them, and with my eyes i cry out, yes, yes, yes! what shall i do, nullius? tell me, are you sure that i have nothing? _anathema smiles. sarah's_, _voice is heard behind the door on the right; a knock at the door._ sarah. let me in, david. david. do not open the door, nullius. anathema. it is your wife, sarah. _he opens the door. sarah enters, leading by the hand a pale-faced woman who is carrying something in her arms._ sarah. _meekly._ forgive me, david. but this woman says that she cannot wait any more. she says that if you delay any longer, she will not recognize her child when he is revived. if it is necessary for you to know his name, it is moishe, little moishe. he is a dark little one,--i looked at him. woman. _falling down on her knees._ forgive me, david, for breaking the line and not waiting for my turn. but there are those who died but a little while ago, while i am carrying him already three days and three nights on my breast. perhaps it is necessary for you to take a look at him? then i will uncover him--i am not deceiving you, david. sarah. i have looked at him already, david. she let me hold him awhile. she is very tired, david. _david retreats slowly, the palms of his hands outstretched forward. he moves thus until he reaches the wall._ david. mercy! mercy! _both women wait patiently._ david. what shall i do? i am fainting, o god! nullius, tell them that i do not resurrect the dead! woman. i implore you, david! do i ask you to restore life to an old man who has lived long and who has deserved death for his evil deeds? do i not understand whom it is possible to resurrect and whom it is not possible to resurrect? but perhaps it is hard for you because he is dead so long. i did not know this,--forgive me. and when he was dying, i promised him: "moishe, do not be afraid to die--david, who brings joy to mankind, will restore your little life to you." david. show him to me. _looks at him, shaking his head, and weeps, wiping his eyes with his red kerchief. sarah looks at him confidently, leaning on his shoulder._ sarah. how old was he? woman. two years, going on the third. _david turns his tear-stained face to anathema and says in a strange voice:_ david. shall i make an attempt, perhaps, nullius? _suddenly he bends down and cries hoarsely:_ adenoi!... adenoi!... begone! begone! the devil has sent you here. tell them, nullius, that i do not resurrect the dead. they have come to mock me! look, they are both laughing there. begone! begone! anathema. _in a low voice, to sarah._ go away, sarah, and lead the woman away. david is not quite ready yet. sarah. _in a whisper._ i will take her to my room. later you may tell david that she is there. _to the woman._ come, woman,--david is not quite ready yet. _they go out. david, exhausted, sits down in an arm-chair and lowers his grey head. he reads something softly._ anathema. they have gone, david. do you hear? they have gone away. david. nullius, did you see? it was a dead child. moishe.... yes, yes, moishe, a dark little one; we looked at him.... (_loudly, in despair._) what shall i do? teach me, nullius. anathema. _quickly._ flee! _listens to what is going on outside the window, nods his head affirmatively, and advances to david cautiously, like a conspirator; david waits for him, with his arms folded as in prayer, a confident smile on his lips. his back is bent, and he frequently takes his red kerchief from his pocket, but does not know what to do with it._ anathema. _in a whisper._ we must flee, david, flee! david. _joyously._ yes, yes, nullius,--we must flee. anathema. i shall hide you in a dark room which no one knows of; when they fall asleep, tired of waiting and hungry, i shall lead you through the sleeping people--and will save you. david. _joyously._ yes, yes, save me. anathema. and they will be waiting! in their sleep they will, wait and dream dreams of great expectations--and you will not be here any longer! david. _nodding his head joyously._ and i shall not be here any longer, nullius! and i shall have fled already, nullius! _laughs._ anathema. _laughing._ and you will not be here any longer! you will have fled! let them speak to heaven then. _they look at each other and laugh._ anathema. _in a friendly tone._ wait for me, david. i shall go out at once and see whether the house is still surrounded. they are such madmen! david. yes, yes, look. they are such madmen! meanwhile i shall prepare myself, nullius.... but i ask you, do not leave me here all alone for a long time. _anathema goes out. david goes cautiously on tiptoe to the window and wants to look out, but he dares not; he goes to the table and is frightened by the scattered sheets of paper; he moves cautiously to the corner where his clothes are. he dresses hastily, mixing up his clothes. for a long time he does not know what to do with his beard; suddenly he pushes it under his coat and hides it with his collar._ david. _muttering._ yes, yes. i must hide my beard. all the children know my beard.... but why did they not tear it out? yes, yes, my beard.... but what a black coat! it does not matter, you will hide it. that's the way. rosa had a mirror.... but rosa ran away, and naum also died, and sarah--oh, but why does not nullius come? does he not hear how they are shouting?... _a knock on the door._ david. _frightened._ who is there? david leizer is not here. anathema. it is i, david; let me in. _anathema enters._ david. well, nullius,--it is possible to recognize me now, is it not? anathema. very good, david. but i don't know how we can get out. sarah has filled the house with guests: in every room the blind and the maimed are waiting for you with a pleasant smile; there are also dead people there, david. your sarah is a splendid woman, but she is too much of a hostess, david, and she intends to build up a fine household on miracles. david. but she must not do it, nullius. anathema. many people are already sleeping at your doors, smiling in their dreams,--self-confident, lucky people, who have managed to outstrip the others.... and in the garden and in the yard.... david. _with fear._ what is there in the yard?... anathema. not so loud, david. look and listen. _he puts out the light in the room and draws aside the draperies; the windows are lit up with a red light; it is dark in the room, but david's head, and the paper on the floor, are tinted a pale crimson hue._ david. _frightened, in a whisper._ where does this fire come from, nullius? i am afraid. anathema. _also in a whisper._ 'tis a cold night, and they have started bonfires. sarah told them that they would have to wait a long time yet, so they have taken precautions. david. where did they get the wood? anathema. they broke certain things. sarah told them that you ordered them to start bonfires, and they are humbly burning whatever wood they find.... and there, david, farther away.... david. _in despair._ what is it, nullius? what else can there be, there yonder?... anathema. i do not know, david. but from the upper window, which was wide open, i heard something like the roaring of the ocean when the rocks tremble with pain from the beating of the breakers; it was as though the roaring of brass trumpets that i heard, david,--they are shouting to the sky and to you, and they are calling you.... do you hear? _in the muffled noise and chaos of sounds, ring out the sounds: da-vid! da-vid! da-vid!_ david. i hear my name. who is calling? what do they want? anathema. i don't know. perhaps they want to crown you as their king. david. me? anathema. you, david leizer. perhaps they are bringing you might and power--and the power of performing miracles--do you not want perhaps to become a god, david? look and listen. _he throws the windows wide open. the sounds of the voices calling "da-vid, da-vid, da-vid!" grow louder and are mingled with the blowing of trumpets._ _david at first moves to the wall, then he slowly advances to the window. he straightens himself, looks out of the window, and pushing anathema aside, outstretches his arms to the poor of the earth._ david. _calling._ come this way! come here! to me! i am here! i am with you! anathema. _astonished._ what? you are calling them? you--are--calling--them? bethink yourself, leizer! david. _angrily._ be silent! you do not understand me! we are all human beings and we shall go together. _enthusiastically._ and we shall go together! come here, brethren, come! look, nullius,--they have lifted their heads, they are looking, they hear me. this way! this way! anathema. will you perform miracles? david. _angrily._ be silent--you are a stranger. you speak as an enemy of god and mankind. you know neither pity nor compassion. we are tired, we are exhausted,--even the dead have grown tired of waiting. come here--and we shall go together. this way! anathema. _looking at david._ are not the blind showing the way to them? david. who needs eyesight if not the blind? this way, blind! anathema. are not the lame making the road and swallowing the dust there? david. who needs the road if not the lame? this way, maimed! anathema. are they not carrying the dead on the stretchers, swaying with measured steps? look, david, and dare to say: "come this way, to me. i am he who resurrects the dead!" david. _tormented._ you know no love, nullius. anathema. "i am he who restores sight to the blind"-_loudly, through the window._ this way! nations of the earth, seeking god,--come together, at the feet of david--he is here! david. not so loud. anathema. eh, this way! suffering mothers,--fathers who have lost their reason in grief,--brothers and sisters who devour one another in the convulsions of hunger--come this way, to david, who has brought joy to mankind! david. _seizing him by the shoulder._ you have lost your mind, nullius. they may hear you and may break into the house.... what are you doing, nullius? be more cautious. anathema. _shouting._ david is calling you! david. _dragging him away from the window forcibly._ be silent! i'll choke you if you utter another word. you dog! anathema. _releasing himself._ you are as foolish as a human being. when i call you to flee from here, you curse me. when i call you to love--you want to choke me. _with contempt._ man! david. _enfeebled._ oh, do not ruin me, nullius. oh, forgive me if i have angered you, foolish old man that i am, with a memory that fails me. but i cannot--i cannot perform any miracles! anathema. let us flee from here. david. yes, yes, let us flee. _irresolutely._ but where? where do you want to lead me, nullius? is there a place on earth where god is not present? anathema. i shall lead you to god. david. no, i don't want to go to him. what will god tell me? and what shall i answer him? be considerate, nullius. can i say anything in answer to god now? anathema. i shall lead you to the desert. we shall leave here these wicked and vicious people, who are seized with the itch of suffering and who break down posts and fences like hogs that scratch themselves. david. _irresolutely._ but they are human beings, nullius. anathema. renounce them, and, pure, stand up in the desert before the face of god. let the rock be your bed, let the howling jackal become your friend, let only the sky and the sand hear the penitent moans of david--not a single stain of another's sin shall come upon the pure snow of his soul. he who remains with lepers becomes a leper himself--only in solitude will you see god. to the desert, david, to the desert! david. i shall pray. anathema. you will pray. david. i shall exhaust my body with fasting. anathema. you will exhaust your body with fasting. david. i shall cover my head with ashes. anathema. what for? unfortunate people do that. but you will be happy, david, in your sinlessness. to the desert, david, to the desert! david. to the desert, nullius, to the desert! anathema. _quickly._ let us run. there is a cellar here of which no one knows. there are old barrels there, and there is the smell of wine. i shall hide you. and when they fall asleep-david. to the desert! to the desert! _they rush out quickly. disorder and silence in the room.. through the open window soon comes in the noise of voices and of brass trumpets, moans and sobs of the mob,--"da-a-a-vid!"_ _and with its pages bent under it, like a house that is falling apart, lies the bible, with its back upward._ slow curtain. act five. _on the right, upon the slope of a mountain, a dilapidated stone fence. on the left, the sea is seen. beyond the fence, a deserted garden; among the trees two tall cypress trees stand out prominently. the sea is dark. it is before a storm. the sky is overcast with heavy clouds, which are driven rapidly by the wind._ _as the curtain goes up no one is on the stage; then anathema climbs over the fence and assists david over the fence. david is very weak and moves with difficulty. their dark clothes are covered with mud and torn in places. both have lost their hats on the way._ anathema. quicker, quicker, david! they are pursuing us. in this dark garden, where it is so quiet, i heard a roaring in the distance, on that side,--as though there were another sea there. quicker, david! david. i can't, nullius. put me down here that i may die. anathema. put your foot here, on this rock. take care. david. before my eyes are paths which turn and turn and lead to the wall. then there are more walls, nullius, and this dark ditch where a bloated dead horse is lying. where are we, nullius? anathema. we are at the sea. we shall take a boat from the fishermen and trust ourselves to the waves--you will sooner find mercy with the senseless waves, david, than with the maddened people. david. yes, it is better to die. _he lies down by the fence._ i am fifty-eight years old, nullius, and i must have a rest.... but who was the man that met us on the highway and was so greatly overjoyed, and ran off shouting: "here is david, who has brought joy to mankind? how does he know me? i had never seen him before. anathema. _as if surveying the shore._ your fame is great, david.... strange, i do not find any path leading downward. david. _shutting his eyes._ the cypress trees have turned dark--there will be a storm to-night, nullius. we should have remained at the stone pit: it was dark and quiet there, and i slept like a man with clear conscience. _grumbling._ but why are you silent, nullius? or am i to speak all alone, as if i were already in the desert? nullius. i am searching. david. _with dissatisfaction._ what else is there to search for? we have searched enough to-day, and we jumped like trained dogs. i felt ashamed, nullius, when i climbed the fences like a little boy stealing apples. you had better come over here and tell me something about your wanderings. i am too tired to sleep. anathema. you'll not be able to sleep, david. _advancing._ there is no way down to the sea. david. what of it? look for it elsewhere. anathema. _outstretching his hand in the direction of the city._ look, david; what is that white line there in the distance? david. _lifting his head._ i don't see it. anathema. it is the city which is awaiting you. now listen. what is that noise in the distance? david. _listening._ that--of course, nullius, that is the echo of the waves of the sea. anathema. no. it is the voice of the people, who will come here soon and will demand miracles from you, and will offer you the kingdom of the poor on earth. when we were hiding in the rocks, i heard two men speak as they hastened to the city: they said that you had been carried away by some evil one and that it was necessary to rescue you from that evil one and offer you the kingdom. david. am i not a sick old jew? am i a piece of gold that i should be stolen? leave me alone, nullius; you are raving like the other people.... i am sleepy. anathema. _impatiently._ but they are coming this way. david. let them come. you will tell them that david is sleeping and that he does not want to perform miracles. _he prepares himself for sleep._ anathema. bethink yourself, david. david. _stubbornly._ he does not want to perform any miracles. good night, nullius. i am old and i do not like to talk nonsense. anathema. david! _david does not answer; he falls asleep, his hands folded under his head._ anathema. awaken, david! the people have come here. _pushes him angrily._ get up, i say. you make believe that you are asleep--i don't believe you. do you hear? _through his teeth._ you've fallen asleep--damned flesh! _steps aside and listens._ anathema. ha, ha! they are coming.... they are coming.... and their king is sleeping! they are coming--and their miracle-worker is sleeping the sleep of the horse which draws water. they are carrying a crown and death--and their victim and master is catching the wind with an open mouth, smacking his lips for pleasure. o miserable race! there is treachery in your bones, betrayal in your blood, and falsehood in your heart! it is better to rely upon flowing waters, to walk upon the waves as upon a bridge; it is better to lean upon the air as upon a rock, than to trust one's haughty anger and bitter dreams to a traitor. _goes over to david and pushes him rudely._ get up! get up, david,--sarah is here, sarah, sarah! david. _awakening._ are you here, sarah? i'll be up soon; i am very tired, sarah.... what is this? you, nullius? where is sarah? didn't she call me just now? how tired i am! how tired i am, nullius! anathema. sarah is coming. sarah is carrying an infant. david. what infant? we have no small children. our children- _half rises, looks around, frightened._ what is that, nullius? who is crying there? anathema. sarah is carrying a dead child. you must resurrect the dead child, david. he is dark, and his name is moishe--moishe--moishe! david. _rising._ we must flee, nullius. we must flee. but where is the road? where have you led me to? _seizes anathema by the arm._ listen how they are shouting. they are coming this way, to me--oh, save me, nullius! anathema. there is no way. _holding david._ there is an abyss. david. what shall i do, nullius? shall i, mayhap, hurl myself down and dash my head against the rocks? but am i a wicked wretch that i should come to god without his calling me? oh, if god only called me--faster than an arrow would my old soul rush to him.... _listens._ they are shouting. they are calling ... calling? step aside, nullius; i want to pray. anathema. _steps aside._ but make haste, david; they are near. david. do you hear? they are coming. i love them, but my love is bitterer than hatred, and it is as powerless as indifference. kill me, and meet them yourself. kill me--and meet them with mercy, with love. fertilize the hungry earth with my body and grow bread upon it, drown sorrow with my soul and grow laughter upon it. and joy, o lord, joy for mankind.... _the approach of an enormous mob is heard._ anathema. _advancing._ quicker, david, quicker,--they are approaching. david. one moment, one moment. _in despair._ joy ... what else? only one word--only one word--but i have forgotten it. _weeping._ oh, what a great number of words there are, but one is missing.... but, perhaps, you need no words at all? anathema. only one word is missing? how strange! it seems that they have found their word--do you hear them wailing? "da-a-vid! da-a-vid!" rise, david, and meet them proudly; it seems they are beginning to mock you. _david rises. some one rushes in ahead of the mob, shouting joyously: "david!" and runs back. the sea looks in one place as though stained with blood._ david. _retreating a step._ i am afraid, nullius. this is the same one we met on the road, with a red little beard.... i fear him, nullius. anathema. meet them proudly. strike them with the truth, david,--with the truth! david. but do not leave me alone, nullius, or i shall forget again where the truth is. _people appear on the fence. they are exhausted, mud-covered, like david. they seem to be blind yet their faces are radiant with joy, and they keep exclaiming: "da-vid! da-vid!"_ david. _outstretching his arms._ back- _they do not listen to him and keep climbing the fence, wailing._ anathema. _audaciously._ where are you going? back--back, you were told. _the people in the front rank pause in fear._ voices. stop! stop! who's that? that's david. no, that's the robber. the one who has carried him off. the robber. a restless man. silence! silence! david wishes to speak. listen to david. _they become silent; but in the distance people are still shouting: "da-vid!"_ david. what is it you want? yes, it is i, david leizer, a jew from the same city that you come from. why do you pursue me like a thief and frighten me like a robber with your shouting? anathema. _audaciously._ what do you want? go away from here. my friend david leizer does not want to see you. david. yes. let me die here, for death is already approaching my heart; go home to your wives and your children. i cannot ease your sufferings in any way,--go. do i speak properly, nullius? anathema. yes, david. the restless man. our wives are here and our children are here. here they stand, waiting for your word of kindness, david,--you who have brought joy to mankind! i have no strength left in me and i have nothing to say. go. woman. move forward a little, rubin, and bow to our master david. you probably remember him, david? bow to him once more, rubin. _the boy bows timidly and hides in the crowd again. laughter._ old man. _smiling._ he is afraid of you, david. don't be afraid, boy. _milled laughter. the wanderer comes forward._ wanderer. you have called us, david, and we have come. we have long waited silently for your merciful call, and now your call has reached the remotest boundaries of the earth. the roads have become black with people; the deserted roads have come to life and the narrow paths are filled with footsteps, and they will soon become highways--and even as the blood that is in the body all rushes to the heart, so all the poor on earth will come to you alone. welcome to you, our master david--the people are bowing before you with their life and the earth. david. _tormented._ what do you want? wanderer. _softly._ righteousness. david. what do you want? all. righteousness. _expectation._ david. _with sudden hope._ tell me, nullius, tell me: is righteousness a miracle? anathema. _bitterly._ there are the blind--they are innocent. there are the dead--and they are also innocent. the earth is bowing before you with its graves, and it greets you with darkness. perform a miracle. david. a miracle? again a miracle? wanderer. _suspiciously and sternly._ and the people do not want you to speak with him whose name we dare not utter. he is an enemy of mankind, and at night, when you were asleep, he carried you off to this mountain--but it did not occur to him to carry off the heart of the people; and, beating unceasingly, this heart has brought us to you. anathema. _audaciously._ it seems that i am superfluous here. david. no, no. do not forsake me, nullius. _tormented._ begone, begone from here! you are tempting god--i do not know you. begone.... begone! anathema. begone! voices. _frightened._ david is angry. what shall we do? the master is angry. david is angry. old man. call sarah. woman. call sarah. sarah! voices. sarah! sarah! sarah!... david. _horror-stricken._ do you hear? they are calling. joyous voice. sarah is coming. _the mob grows bolder._ khessin. _bowing several times._ it is i, david,--i. peace be with you, our master david. sonka. _smiling and bowing._ peace be with you. peace be with you, david. _david turns aside and covers his face with his hands._ anathema. _indifferently._ begone! _general confusion; interrupted smiles, muffled groans. sarah, led respectfully by the arms, advances to david. nearing him, she walks alone._ anathema. turn around, david.... sarah is here. sarah. peace be with you, david. forgive me for disturbing you, but the people have asked me to speak with you and to find out when you intend to return home to your palace. and they have also asked you to make haste, david, for many have died already of unbearable sufferings--and the dead have already grown tired of waiting. and many have already lost their reason from their unbearable sufferings, and they will soon commence to murder; if you will not make haste, david, all the people will become enemies--and it will be hard for you to establish a kingdom upon the dead earth. _bitter wailings in the distance: "da-vid! da-vid! da-vid!"_ david. _with restraint._ go away, sarah. sarah. _humbly._ your clothes are torn, david, and i fear that there are wounds upon your body. what ails you? why do you not rejoice with us? david. _weeping._ oh, sarah, sarah! what are you doing with me? consider, sarah,--consider you all. have i not given everything away to you? i have nothing left. have pity on me even as i had pity on you,--and kill my unnecessary body with stones. i love you--and words of anger are powerless upon my lips, and wrath upon loving lips does not frighten you--have pity on me. i have nothing more. i have a little blood in my veins, but would i not give away the last drop of it, if i could only quench your bitter thirst? like a sponge i would have squeezed my heart between the palms of my hands--and the cunning heart, so greedy for life, would not dare hide a single drop.... _be tears his clothes and scratches his chest with his nails._ here my blood is flowing--my blood is flowing? has a single one of you smiled a smile of joy? here i am tearing the hair of my beard and i fling the grey locks--i fling them at your feet--has a single dead person risen? here i spit into your eyes--will one blind man regain his sight? here i bite the rocks--the rocks--like a mad beast--will one hungry person be satiated? here i hurl myself at you- _be makes several quick steps, and the crowd retreats in horror._ anathema. that's right, david! strike them! sarah. _retreating._ oh, do not punish us, david. wanderer. _to the crowd._ he obeys the one who carried him off. he says: i shall not give anything to the people. he spits and says he spits into the eyes of the people.... _cries of horror and growing malice. but in the distance there are still prayerful wailings: "da-vid! da-vid! da-vid!"_ someone. he dares not spit at the people. we have done him no wrong. another voice. i saw it, i saw it. he lifted stones. defend yourselves. anathema. be on your guard; they will soon throw stones at you. they are beasts. wanderer. _to david._ you have deceived us, you jew. sarah. do not dare speak like this. khessin. _seizes the wanderer by the chest._ another word and i shall choke you. david. _shouting._ i have not deceived any one. i have given everything away and have nothing left. anathema. do you hear, fools? david has nothing. _laughs._ nothing. am i not telling the truth, david? wanderer. do you hear? he has nothing. why, then, did he call us? he has deceived us. he has deceived us. khessin. _perplexed._ but that is true, sarah; he himself says that he has nothing. sarah. do not mind david. he is ill. he is tired. he will give us everything. wanderer. _with sorrow and anger._ how could you do that, david? what have you done with the people, accursed one? restless man. listen what david, who has brought joy to mankind, has done to me. he promised me ten roubles, and then took it back and gave me one copeck, and i thought that the copeck was not really a copeck--i went to a store with it and demanded a great deal, but they laughed and chased me away as a thief. you are the thief. you are the robber; you have left my children without milk. here is your copeck. _throws the copeck at david's feet. many other people follow his example._ sarah. _defending david._ do not dare offend david. _david weeps silently, his face covered with his hands._ angry man. traitor! he raised the dead out of their graves in order to make sport of them. strike him with stones. _bends down to lift a stone. a strong wind rises; in the distance thunder-peals resound. the mob is horror-stricken._ david. _raising his head and baring his chest._ stone me--i am a traitor! _louder thunder-peals. anathema laughs merrily._ wanderer. traitor! stone him! he has deceived us! he has betrayed us! he has lied to us! _confusion. they advance towards david, lifting stones; some flee, sobbing._ david. take me. i am going to you. anathema. where? they will kill you! david. you are my enemy. leave me. _releases himself from his grasp._ wanderer. _raising a stone above his head._ back! satan! anathema. _hastily._ curse them, david. they will soon put you to death. quick! _david lifts his arms and sinks down, struck by a stone. almost in silence, grumbling, they hurl stones upon his motionless body. thunder-peals. anathema is laughing. suddenly a woman screams. then another. all are shouting. the mob runs away. the last one lifts a stone to throw it on david's head, but looks around and finding himself alone, lets the stone fall out of his hand and runs away with a wild outcry._ anathema. _swaying himself in every direction, he leaps upon a rock, jumps down, then up again._ ah, you have triumphed, david! _laughter._ look! look how the herd you have cursed is fleeing. ha, ha! they are falling from the rocks. ha, ha! they are hurling themselves into the sea. ha! they are trampling children under their feet. look, david,--they are trampling upon children. you have done it. great and mighty david leizer! favorite son of god! you have done it. ha, ha, ha! _he whirls around, madly laughing._ ah, where shall i go with my joy? ah, where shall i go with my tidings? the earth is too small for it! east and west! north and south! look and listen. david, who has brought joy to mankind, is put to death by mankind and by god. and upon his ill-smelling corpse i--anathema--will put my foot. _to heaven._ do you hear? answer, if you can. _he tramples upon david's body. then a groan is heard, and david's grey, blood-stained head lifts itself, quivering strangely._ anathema. _retreating._ you are still alive? you have lied even this time. david. _crawls._ i am coming to you. wait for me, sarah. one moment. anathema. _bending over, examines david._ you are crawling? like myself? like a dog? after them? david. _in the agony of death._ oh, i cannot reach them. carry me, nullius. do i say that it is not necessary to stone me? oh, let them stone me. carry me, nullius. i shall lie down quietly on the threshold, i shall only look through the crevice and see how the little children are eating.... oh, my beard.... oh, my terrible beard.... oh, don't be afraid, my little one,--you alone are laughing. my little children, my tiny little children.... anathema. _stamping his foot._ you are mistaken, david. you are dead. and your children are dead. the earth is dead--dead--dead. look. _david rises with difficulty and looks into the distance, his weak hands outstretched._ david. i see, nullius. my old friend--my old friend, stay here, i beg you--and i shall go to them. do you know, nullius.... _confused._ i think that i found a copeck.... _laughs quietly._ i told you, nullius, to examine that paper. abraham khessin, my friend- _firmly._ abraham khessin is my friend.... _he sinks down and dies._ _thunder in the distance. it is dark; the sun, red, is seen on the horizon, near the water. it sets._ anathema. _bending over him._ is it true this time? are you dead? or do you he again? no--it is an honest death now. let me have your fist. open it. you don't want to? but i am stronger than you. _rises and examines what david had in his hand._ a copeck! _throws it down with contempt. pushes david with his foot._ farewell, fool. to-morrow people will find your body here and will bury you with pomp, according to the custom of the people. kind-hearted murderers, they love those they kill. and out of the rocks with which they stoned you for your love, they will erect a tall, crooked, and stupid tombstone. and in order to enliven the stupid, dead pile of stone, they will put me on the top. _he laughs. then he suddenly breaks of his laughter and assumes a haughty pose._ who shall wrench the victory from the hands of anathema? the strong i kill, the weak i force to whirl about in an intoxicating dance--a mad dance--a devilish dance. _he strikes the ground with his foot._ be subdued, o earth, and bring me your gifts humbly! kill, burn, betray, o man, in the name of your master! i steer my boat over a sea of blood which smells so sweetly,--and my sails are burning red- _to heaven._ to you, for an answer! not as a dog crawling on his belly, but as a distinguished guest, as the reigning prince of the earth, i shall come sailing to your mute shores. _majestically._ be prepared. i shall demand an exact answer. ha, ha, ha! _disappears in the darkness, bursting into laughter._ curtain. epilogue. _nothing has happened; nothing has changed. as before, the earth is weighted down by the heavy iron gates, closed from time immemorial, beyond which dwells in silence and in mystery the beginning of every being, the supreme wisdom of the universe. and the guardian of the entrances is just as silent and as sternly motionless as before. nothing has happened; nothing has changed._ _the grey light, as grey as the rocks, is terrible; the place is terrible, but anathema likes it. and he appears again; but he does not crawl on his belly like a dog; nor does he hide himself beyond the rocks like a thief. like a conqueror, he is trying to seal his victory by his haughty gait, by the importance of his slow movements. but as the devil can never be truthful, and as there are no bounds to his doubts, he brings his duality even into this: he walks like a conqueror, yet he is afraid; he throws his head back high like a sovereign, and yet he laughs at his exaggerated self-importance; a gloomy and malicious clown, he longs for greatness; and forced to laugh, he despises laughter._ _thus, assuming important airs beyond measure, he goes up to the middle of the mountain and waits there in a haughty pose. but his uncertain importance is devoured by the silence, even as dry wood is devoured by fire--and he begins to hurry, without holding out the pause, like a poor musician, striving to conceal himself and his doubts and his odious fear in a vast deal of jests, in loud shouting and in rapid gestures. he stamps his foot and shouts in a voice of assumed sternness._ anathema. why are there no trumpets here? why no celebration? why are these old and rusty gates closed? and why does no one hand me the keys? is it proper in decent circles to meet thus an eminent guest, the reigning prince of the earth, which is friendly to us? only the doorkeeper is here, apparently asleep, and no one else. it is bad--bad! _he bursts into laughter, and stretching himself wearily, sits down upon a rock. he speaks humbly and with an air of fatigue._ but i am not vainglorious. trumpets, flowers, and shouting--all this is useless! i myself heard at one time how the people trumpeted glory for david leizer, but what has come of it? _he heaves a sigh._ it is sad to think of it. _he whistles mournfully._ you have surely heard of the misfortune that has come upon my friend david leizer? i remember when i last chatted with you,--you did not know this name then.... but do you know it now? it is a name to be proud of! when i left the earth, the entire earth in a million of hungry throats called this glorious name, shouting: "david is a deceiver! david is a traitor! david is a liar!" then it seemed to me that some of the people reproached also another one--for my honest friend, who died an untimely death, did not act so incautiously in his own name. _the guardian is silent. and anathema shouts now with an air of real triumph, breathing malice._ the name! call the name of him who has ruined david and thousands of people! i, anathema, have no heart, my eyes have dried up from the fire of hell, and there are no tears in them, but if the tears were there i would have given them all to david. i have no heart, but there was an instant when something five trembled in my chest, and i was frightened: i wondered whether a heart could be born. i saw how david was perishing and thousands of people with him, i saw how his spirit, grown dark, curled up piteously like a dead worm in the sun, was hurled down into the abyss of non-existence, into my abode of darkness and death.... tell me, are you not the one who has ruined david? guardian of the entrances. david has attained immortality, and he lives forever in the deathlessness of fire. david has attained immortality, and he fives forever in the deathlessness of fight, which is fife. _dumfounded, anathema falls to the ground and lies motionless for an instant. then he lifts his head, which is as angry as that of a serpent. he rises and speaks with the calm of boundless wrath._ anathema. you fie! forgive me my daring, but you fie. surely your power is immense--and you can give immortality to a dead worm that has turned black from the sun. but would that be just? or do the numbers fie to which you, too, must submit? or do all the scales fie, and is all your world nothing but one fie,--a cruel and mad game of laws, a malicious laugh of a despot at the dumbness and submissiveness of the slave? _he speaks gloomily, in the grief of deathless blindness._ anathema. i am tired of searching. i have grown tired of life, of aimless tortures--of the quest after the ever elusive. give me death, but do not torment me with ignorance; answer me honestly, even as i am honest in my uprising as a slave. did not david love? answer. did not david give his soul away? answer. and did they not stone david, who had given his soul away? answer. guardian. yes. they stoned david, who had given his soul away. anathema. _smiling darkly._ now you are honest and you answer me with modesty. without having stilled the hunger of the hungry, without having restored sight to the blind, without having brought to life those who had died innocently,--having stirred up dissension and dispute and cruel bloodshed, for the people have already risen against one another and are committing violence, murder, and plunder in the name of david,--did not david manifest the powerlessness of love, and did he not create a great evil which could be numbered and weighed? guardian. yes. david has done that which you say; and the people have done that of which you accuse them. and the numbers do not lie, and the scales are correct, and every measure is what it is. anathema. _triumphantly._ you say that! guardian. but that which you do not know, anathema, is not measured with a measure, and is not calculated in numbers, and is not weighed on scales. light has no boundaries, nor is there any boundary for the glow of fire--there is a red fire, and there is a yellow fire, and there is a white fire, in which the sun bums like a yellow straw,--and there is still another unknown fire, whose name no one knows--for there is no limit to the glow of fire. having died in numbers, having died in measures and in weights, david has attained immortality in the deathlessness of fire. anathema, you lie again! _he flings himself about on the ground in despair._ anathema. oh, who will help the honest anathema? he is being deceived eternally. oh, who will help the unfortunate anathema? his immortality is deception. oh, weep, you who have grown fond of the devil; wail and grieve, you who strive for truth, who honor wisdom,--anathema is being deceived eternally. when i win, he takes it away from me. when i come out victorious, he fetters the conqueror in chains, he pricks out the eyes of the ruler, and to the haughty he gives the traits of a dog, a wagging and quivering tail. david, david, i was a friend to you,--tell him that he lies. _he puts his head down on his outstretched arms, like a dog, and wails bitterly._ where is the truth? where is the truth? where is the truth? was it not crushed with stones? is it not lying in the ditch together with the carrion? oh, the light has died out from the world! oh, the world has no eyes!... he crows have pecked them out.... where is the truth? where is the truth? where is the truth? _plaintively._ tell me, will anathema ever learn the truth? guardian. no. anathema. tell me, will anathema ever see the gates open? shall i ever see your face? guardian. no. never. my face is open, but you see it not. my speech is loud, but you hear it not. my commands are clear, but you know them not, anathema. and you will never see, and you will never hear, and you will never know, anathema, unfortunate spirit, deathless in numbers, ever alive in measure and in weight, but as yet unborn to life. _anathema leaps to his feet._ anathema. you lie,--silent dog, you who have robbed the world of the truth, you who have barred the entrances with iron! farewell; i like a fair game, and i pay when i lose. and if you will not pay, i shall cry before the whole universe: "help! i have been robbed!" _he bursts into laughter. whistling, he retreats a few steps, and turns around. he speaks unconcernedly._ anathema. i have nothing to do, so i roam about the world. do you know where i am going now? i shall go to the grave of david leizer. like a grieving widow, like the son of a father who had been murdered from behind the corner by a traitor's blow,--i shall sit down on david leizer's grave and shall weep so bitterly, and cry so loudly, and call so terribly, that not one honest soul will remain that would not curse the murderer. insane from grief, i shall point to the right and to the left.... was not this the one who killed him? did not that one assist in the bloody crime? did not that one betray? i shall cry so bitterly, i shall accuse so sternly, that all on earth will become murderers and hangmen, in the name of leizer, in the name of david leizer, in the name of david, who brought joy to mankind! and when from the heap of corpses, of filthy, foulsmelling, and disgusting corpses i shall announce to the people that you are the one who killed david and the people,--they will believe me. _bursts into laughter._ for you have such a bad reputation--of a liar, a deceiver, a murderer. good-by. _he goes off laughing. his laughter resounds once more from the depths. and then everything relapses into silence._ curtain. _satan's diary_ _satan's diary_ by leonid andreyev _authorized translation_ with a preface by herman bernstein boni and liveright publishers new york copyright, 1920, by boni & liveright, inc. _printed in the united states of america_ preface "satan's diary," leonid andreyev's last work, was completed by the great russian a few days before he died in finland, in september, 1919. but a few years ago the most popular and successful of russian writers, andreyev died almost penniless, a sad, tragic figure, disillusioned, broken-hearted over the tragedy of russia. a year ago leonid andreyev wrote me that he was eager to come to america, to study this country and familiarize americans with the fate of his unfortunate countrymen. i arranged for his visit to this country and informed him of this by cable. but on the very day i sent my cable the sad news came from finland announcing that leonid andreyev died of heart failure. in "satan's diary" andreyev summed up his boundless disillusionment in an absorbing satire on human life. fearlessly and mercilessly he hurled the falsehoods and hypocrisies into the face of life. he portrayed satan coming to this earth to amuse himself and play. having assumed the form of an american multi-millionaire, satan set out on a tour through europe in quest of amusement and adventure. before him passed various forms of spurious virtues, hypocrisies, the ruthless cruelty of man and the often deceptive innocence of woman. within a short time satan finds himself outwitted, deceived, relieved of his millions, mocked, humiliated, beaten by man in his own devilish devices. the story of andreyev's beginning as a writer is best told in his autobiography which he gave me in 1908. * * * * * "i was born," he said, "in oryol, in 1871, and studied there at the gymnasium. i studied poorly; while in the seventh class i was for a whole year known as the worst student, and my mark for conduct was never higher than 4, sometimes 3. the most pleasant time i spent at school, which i recall to this day with pleasure, was recess time between lessons, and also the rare occasions when i was sent out from the classroom.... the sunbeams, the free sunbeams, which penetrated some cleft and which played with the dust in the hallway--all this was so mysterious, so interesting, so full of a peculiar, hidden meaning. "when i studied at the gymnasium my father, an engineer, died. as a university student i was in dire need. during my first course in st. petersburg i even starved--not so much out of real necessity as because of my youth, inexperience, and my inability to utilize the unnecessary parts of my costume. i am to this day ashamed to think that i went two days without food at a time when i had two or three pairs of trousers and two overcoats which i could have sold. "it was then that i wrote my first story--about a starving student. i cried when i wrote it, and the editor, who returned my manuscript, laughed. that story of mine remained unpublished.... in 1894, in january, i made an unsuccessful attempt to kill myself by shooting. as a result of this unsuccessful attempt i was forced by the authorities into religious penitence, and i contracted heart trouble, though not of a serious nature, yet very annoying. during this time i made one or two unsuccessful attempts at writing; i devoted myself with greater pleasure and success to painting, which i loved from childhood on. i made portraits to order at 3 and 5 rubles a piece. "in 1897 i received my diploma and became an assistant attorney, but i was at the very outset sidetracked. i was offered a position on _the courier_, for which i was to report court proceedings. i did not succeed in getting any practice as a lawyer. i had only one case and lost it at every point. "in 1898 i wrote my first story--for the easter number--and since that time i have devoted myself exclusively to literature. maxim gorky helped me considerably in my literary work by his always practical advice and suggestions." * * * * * andreyev's first steps in literature, his first short stories, attracted but little attention at the time of their appearance. it was only when countess tolstoy, the wife of leo tolstoy, in a letter to the _novoye vremya_, came out in "defense of artistic purity and moral power in contemporary literature," declaring that russian society, instead of buying, reading and making famous the works of the andreyevs, should "rise against such filth with indignation," that almost everybody who knew how to read in russia turned to the little volume of the young writer. in her attack upon andreyev, countess tolstoy said as follows: * * * * * "the poor new writers, like andreyev, succeeded only in concentrating their attention on the filthy point of human degradation and uttered a cry to the undeveloped, half-intelligent reading public, inviting them to see and to examine the decomposed corpse of human degradation and to close their eyes to god's wonderful, vast world, with the beauties of nature, with the majesty of art, with the lofty yearnings of the human soul, with the religious and moral struggles and the great ideals of goodness--even with the downfall, misfortunes and weaknesses of such people as dostoyevsky depicted.... in describing all these every true artist should illumine clearly before humanity not the side of filth and vice, but should struggle against them by illumining the highest ideals of good, truth, and the triumph over evil, weakness, and the vices of mankind.... i should like to cry out loudly to the whole world in order to help those unfortunate people whose wings, given to each of them for high flights toward the understanding of the spiritual light, beauty, kindness, and god, are clipped by these andreyevs." this letter of countess tolstoy called forth a storm of protest in the russian press, and, strange to say, the representatives of the fair sex were among the warmest defenders of the young author. answering the attack, many women, in their letters to the press, pointed out that the author of "anna karenina" had been abused in almost the same manner for his "kreutzer sonata," and that tolstoy himself had been accused of exerting just such an influence as the countess attributed to andreyev over the youth of russia. since the publication of countess tolstoy's condemnation, andreyev has produced a series of masterpieces, such as "the life of father vassily," a powerful psychological study; "red laughter," a war story, "written with the blood of russia;" "the life of man," a striking morality presentation in five acts; "anathema," his greatest drama; and "the seven who were hanged," in which the horrors of russian life under the tsar were delineated with such beautiful simplicity and power that turgenev, or tolstoy himself, would have signed his name to this masterpiece. thus the first accusations against andreyev were disarmed by his artistic productions, permeated with sincere, profound love for all that is pure in life. dostoyevsky and maupassant depicted more subjects, such as that treated in "the abyss," than andreyev. but with them these stories are lost in the great mass of their other works, while in andreyev, who at that time had as yet produced but a few short stories, works like "the abyss" stood out in bold relief. i recall my first meeting with leonid andreyev in 1908, two weeks after my visit to count leo tolstoy at yasnaya polyana. at that time he had already become the most popular russian writer, his popularity having overshadowed even that of maxim gorky. as i drove from terioki to andreyev's house, along the dust-covered road, the stern and taciturn little finnish driver suddenly broke the silence by saying to me in broken russian: "andreyev is a good writer.... although he is a russian, he is a very good man. he is building a beautiful house here in finland, and he gives employment to many of our people." we were soon at the gate of andreyev's beautiful villa--a fantastic structure, weird-looking, original in design, something like the conception of the architect in the "life of man." "my son is out rowing with his wife in the gulf of finland," andreyev's mother told me. "they will be back in half an hour." as i waited i watched the seething activity everywhere on andreyev's estate. in yasnaya polyana, the home of count tolstoy, everything seemed long established, fixed, well-regulated, serenely beautiful. andreyev's estate was astir with vigorous life. young, strong men were building the house of man. more than thirty of them were working on the roof and in the yard, and a little distance away, in the meadows, young women and girls, bright-eyed and red faced, were haying. youth, strength, vigor everywhere, and above all the ringing laughter of little children at play. i could see from the window the "black little river," which sparkled in the sun hundreds of feet below. the constant noise of the workmen's axes and hammers was so loud that i did not notice when leonid andreyev entered the room where i was waiting for him. "pardon my manner of dressing," he said, as we shook hands. "in the summer i lead a lazy life, and do not write a line. i am afraid i am forgetting even to sign my name." i had seen numerous photographs of leonid andreyev, but he did not look like any of them. instead of a pale-faced, sickly-looking young man, there stood before me a strong, handsome, well-built man, with wonderful eyes. he wore a grayish blouse, black, wide pantaloons up to his knees, and no shoes or stockings. we soon spoke of russian literature at the time, particularly of the drama. "we have no real drama in russia," said andreyev. "russia has not yet produced anything that could justly be called a great drama. perhaps 'the storm,' by ostrovsky, is the only russian play that may be classed as a drama. tolstoy's plays cannot be placed in this category. of the later writers, anton chekhov came nearest to giving real dramas to russia, but, unfortunately, he was taken from us in the prime of his life." "what do you consider your own 'life of man' and 'to the stars'?" i asked. "they are not dramas; they are merely presentations in so many acts," answered andreyev, and, after some hesitation, added: "i have not written any dramas, but it is possible that i will write one." at this point andreyev's wife came in, dressed in a russian blouse. the conversation turned to america, and to the treatment accorded to maxim gorky in new york. "when i was a child i loved america," remarked andreyev. "perhaps cooper and mayne reid, my favorite authors in my childhood days, were responsible for this. i was always planning to run away to america. i am anxious even now to visit america, but i am afraid--i may get as bad a reception as my friend gorky got." he laughed as he glanced at his wife. after a brief pause, he said: "the most remarkable thing about the gorky incident is that while in his stories and articles about america gorky wrote nothing but the very worst that could be said about that country he never told me anything but the very best about america. some day he will probably describe his impressions of america as he related them to me." it was a very warm day. the sun was burning mercilessly in the large room. mme. andreyev suggested that it would be more pleasant to go down to a shady place near the black little river. on the way down the hill andreyev inquired about tolstoy's health and was eager to know his views on contemporary matters. "if tolstoy were young now he would have been with us," he said. we stepped into a boat, mme. andreyev took up the oars and began to row. we resumed our conversation. "the decadent movement in russian literature," said andreyev, "started to make itself felt about ten or fifteen years ago. at first it was looked upon as mere child's play, as a curiosity. now it is regarded more seriously. although i do not belong to that school, i do not consider it worthless. the fault with it is that it has but few talented people in its ranks, and these few direct the criticism of the decadent school. they are the writers and also the critics. and they praise whatever they write. of the younger men, alexander blok is perhaps the most gifted. but in russia our clothes change quickly nowadays, and it is hard to tell what the future will tell us--in our literature and our life. "how do i picture to myself this future?" continued andreyev, in answer to a question of mine. "i cannot know even the fate and future of my own child; how can i foretell the future of such a great country as russia? but i believe that the russian people have a great future before them--in life and in literature--for they are a great people, rich in talents, kind and freedom-loving. savage as yet, it is true, very ignorant, but on the whole they do not differ so much from other european nations." suddenly the author of "red laughter" looked upon me intently, and asked: "how is it that the european and the american press has ceased to interest itself in our struggle for emancipation? is it possible that the reaction in russia appeals to them more than our people's yearnings for freedom, simply because the reaction happens to be stronger at the present time? in that event, they are probably sympathizing with the shah of persia! russia to-day is a lunatic asylum. the people who are hanged are not the people who should be hanged. everywhere else honest people are at large and only criminals are in prison. in russia the honest people are in prison and the criminals are at large. the russian government is composed of a band of criminals, and nicholas ii is not the greatest of them. there are still greater ones. i do not hold that the russian government alone is guilty of these horrors. the european nations and the americans are just as much to blame, for they look on in silence while the most despicable crimes are committed. the murderer usually has at least courage, while he who looks on silently when murder is committed is a contemptible weakling. england and france, who have become so friendly to our government, are surely watching with compassion the poor shah, who hangs the constitutional leaders. perhaps i do not know international law. perhaps i am not speaking as a practical man. one nation must not interfere with the internal affairs of another nation. but why do they interfere with our movement for freedom? france helped the russian government in its war against the people by giving money to russia. germany also helped--secretly. in well-regulated countries each individual must behave decently. when a man murders, robs, dishonors women he is thrown into prison. but when the russian government is murdering helpless men and women and children the other governments look on indifferently. and yet they speak of god. if this had happened in the middle ages a crusade would have been started by civilized peoples who would have marched to russia to free the women and the children from the claws of the government." andreyev became silent. his wife kept rowing for some time slowly, without saying a word. we soon reached the shore and returned silently to the house. that was twelve years ago. i met him several times after that. the last time i visited him in petrograd during the july riots in 1917. * * * * * a literary friend thus describes the funeral of leonid andreyev, which gives a picture of the tragedy of russia: "in the morning a decision had to be reached as to the day of the funeral. it was necessary to see to the purchase and the delivery of the coffin from viborg, and to undertake all those unavoidable, hard duties which are so painful to the family. "it appeared that the russian exiles living in our village had no permits from the finnish government to go to viborg, nor the money for that expense. it further appeared that the family of leonid andreyev had left at their disposal only one hundred marks (about 6 dollars), which the doctor who had come from the station after andreyev's death declined to take from the widow for his visit. "this was all the family possessed. it was necessary to charge a russian exile living in a neighboring village, who had a pass for viborg, with the sad commission of finding among some wealthy people in viborg who had known andreyev the means required for the funeral. "on the following day mass was read. floral tributes and wreaths from viborg, with black inscriptions made hastily in ink on white ribbons, began to arrive. they were all from private individuals. the local refugees brought garlands of autumn foliage, bouquets of late flowers. their children laid their carefully woven, simple and touching little childish wreaths at the foot of the coffin. leonid andreyev's widow did not wish to inter the body in foreign soil and it was decided, temporarily, until burial in native ground, to leave his body in the little mortuary in the park on the estate of a local woman landowner. "the day of the funeral was not widely known. the need for special permits to travel deprived many of the opportunity to attend. in this way it happened that only a very small group of people followed the body from the house to the mortuary. none of his close friends was there. they, like his brothers, sister, one of his sons, were in russia. neighbors, refugees, acquaintances of the last two years with whom his exile had accidentally thrown him into contact, people who had no connection with russian literature,--almost all alien in spirit--such was the little group of russians that followed the coffin of leonid andreyev to its temporary resting place. "it was a tragic funeral, this funeral in exile, of a writer who is so dearly loved by the whole intellectual class of russia; whom the younger generation of russia acclaimed with such enthusiasm. "meanwhile he rests in a foreign land, waiting--waiting for free russia to demand back his ashes, and pay tribute to his genius." among his last notes, breathing deep anguish and despair, found on his desk, were the following lines: "revolution is just as unsatisfactory a means of settling disputes as is war. if it be impossible to vanquish a hostile idea except by smashing the skull in which it is contained; if it be impossible to appease a hostile heart except by piercing it with a bayonet, then, of course, fight...." leonid andreyev died of a broken heart. but the spirit of his genius is deathless. herman bernstein. _new york, september._ _satan's diary_ satan's diary january 18. on board the _atlantic_. this is exactly the tenth day since i have become human and am leading this earthly life. my loneliness is very great. i am not in need of friends, but i must speak of myself and i have no one to speak to. thoughts alone are not sufficient, and they will not become quite clear, precise and exact until i express them in words. it is necessary to arrange them in a row, like soldiers or telephone poles, to lay them out like a railway track, to throw across bridges and viaducts, to construct barrows and enclosures, to indicate stations in certain places--and only then will everything become clear. this laborious engineering work, i think, they call logic and consistency, and is essential to those who desire to be wise. it is not essential to all others. they may wander about as they please. the work is slow, difficult and repulsive for one who is accustomed to--i do not know what to call it--to embracing all in one breath and expressing all in a single breath. it is not in vain that men respect their thinkers so much, and it is not in vain that these unfortunate thinkers, if they are honest and conscientious in this process of construction, as ordinary engineers, end in insane asylums. i am but a few days on this earth and more than once have the yellow walls of the insane asylum and its luring open door flashed before my eyes. yes, it is extremely difficult and irritates one's "nerves." i have just now wasted so much of the ship's fine stationery to express a little ordinary thought on the inadequacy of man's words and logic. what will it be necessary to waste to give expression to the great and the unusual? i want to warn you, my earthly reader, at the very outset, not to gape in astonishment. the _extraordinary cannot be expressed_ in the language of your grumbling. if you do not believe me, go to the nearest insane asylum and listen to the inmates: they have all realized _something_ and wanted to give expression to it. and now you can hear the roar and rumble of these wrecked engines, their wheels revolving and hissing in the air, and you can see with what difficulty they manage to hold intact the rapidly dissolving features of their astonished faces! i see you are all ready to ply me with questions, now that you learned that i am satan in human form: it is so fascinating! whence did i come? what are the ways of hell? is there immortality there, and, also, what is the price of coal at the stock exchange of hell? unfortunately, my dear reader, despite my desire to the contrary, if i had such a desire, i am powerless to satisfy your very proper curiosity. i could have composed for your benefit one of those funny little stories about horny and hairy devils, which appeal so much to your meagre imagination, but you have had enough of them already and i do not want to lie so rudely and ungracefully. i will lie to you elsewhere, when you least expect it, and that will be far more interesting for both of us. and the truth--how am i to tell it when even my name cannot be expressed in your tongue? you have called me satan and i accept the name, just as i would have accepted any other: be it so--i am satan. but my real name sounds quite different, quite different! it has an extraordinary sound and try as i may i cannot force it into your narrow ear without tearing it open together with your brain: be it so--i am satan. and nothing more. and you yourself are to blame for this, my friend: why is there so little understanding in your reason? your reason is like a beggar's sack, containing only crusts of stale bread, while it is necessary to have something more than bread. you have but two conceptions of existence: life and death. how, then, can i reveal to you the _third_? all your existence is an absurdity only because you do not have this _third conception_. and where can i get it for you? to-day i am human, even as you. in my skull is your brain. in my mouth are your cubic words, jostling one another about with their sharp corners, and i cannot tell you of the extraordinary. if i were to tell you that there are no devils i would lie. but if i say that such creatures do exist i also deceive you. you see how difficult it is, how absurd, my friend! i can also tell you but little that you would understand of how i assumed the human form, with which i began my earthly life ten days ago. first of all, forget about your favorite, hairy, horny, winged devils, who breathe fire, transform fragments of earthenware into gold and change old men into fascinating youths, and having done all this and prattled much nonsense, they disappear suddenly through a wall. remember: when _we_, want to visit your earth _we_ must always become human. why this is so you will learn after your death. meanwhile remember: i am a human being now like yourself. there is not the foul smell of a goat about me but the fragrance of perfume, and you need not fear to shake my hand lest i may scratch you with my nails: i manicure them just as you do. but how did it all happen? very simply. when i first conceived the desire to visit this earth i selected as the most satisfactory lodging a 38-year-old american billionaire, mr. henry wondergood. i killed him at night,--of course, not in the presence of witnesses. but you cannot bring me to court despite this confession, because the american is alive, and we both greet you with one respectful bow: i and wondergood. he simply rented his empty place to me. you understand? and not all of it either, the devil take him! and, to my great regret i can _return_ only through the same door which leads you too to liberty: through death. this is the most important thing. you may understand something of what i may have to say later on, although to speak to you of such matters in your language is like trying to conceal a mountain in a vest pocket or to empty niagara with a thimble. imagine, for example, that you, my dear king of nature, should want to come closer to the ants, and that by some miracle you became a real little ant,--then you may have some conception of that gulf which separates me now from what i was. no, still more! imagine that you were a sound and have become a mere symbol--a musical mark on paper.... no, still worse!--no comparisons can make clear to you that terrible gulf whose bottom even i do not see as yet. or, perhaps, there is no bottom there at all. think of it: for two days, after leaving new york, i suffered from seasickness! this sounds queer to you, who are accustomed to wallow in your own dirt? well, i--i have also wallowed in it but it was not queer at all. i only smiled once in thinking that _it_ was not i, but wondergood, and said: "roll on, wondergood, roll on!" there is another question to which you probably want an answer: why did i come to this earth and accept such an unprofitable exchange: to be transformed from satan, "the mighty, immortal chieftain and ruler" into you? i am tired of seeking words that cannot be found. i will answer you in english, french, italian or german--languages we both understand well. i have grown lonesome in hell and i have come upon the earth to lie and play. you know what ennui is. and as for falsehood, you know it well too. and as for _play_--you can judge it to a certain extent by your own theaters and celebrated actors. perhaps you yourself are playing a little rã´le in parliament, at home, or in your church. if you are, you may understand something of the _satisfaction_ of play. and, if in addition, you are familiar with the multiplication table, then multiply the delight and joy of play into any considerable figure and you will get an idea of my enjoyment, of my play. no, imagine that you are an ocean wave, which plays eternally and lives only in play--take this wave, for example, which i see outside the porthole now and which wants to lift our "atlantic"...but, here i am again seeking words and comparisons! i simply want to play. at present i am still an unknown actor, a modest dã©butante, but i hope to become no less a celebrity than your own garrick or aldrich, after i have played what i please. i am proud, selfish and even, if you please, vain and boastful. you know what vanity is, when you crave the praise and plaudits even of a fool? then i entertain the brazen idea that i am a genius. satan is known for his brazenness. and so, imagine, that i have grown weary of hell where all these hairy and horny rogues play and lie no worse than i do, and that i am no longer satisfied with the laurels of hell, in which i but perceive no small measure of base flattery and downright stupidity. but i have heard of you, my earthly friend; i have heard that you are wise, tolerably honest, properly incredulous, responsive to the problems of eternal art and that you yourself play and lie so badly that you might appreciate the playing of others: not in vain have you so many _great actors_. and so i have come. you understand? my stage is the earth and the nearest scene for which i am now bound is rome, the eternal city, as it is called here, in your profound conception of eternity and other simple matters. i have not yet selected my company (would you not like to join it?). but i believe that _fate_ and _chance_, to whom i am now subservient, like all your earthly things, will realize my unselfish motives and will send me worthy partners. old europe is so rich in talents! i believe that i shall find a keen and appreciative audience in europe, too. i confess that i first thought of going to the east, which some of my compatriots made their scene of activity some time ago with no small measure of success, but the east is too credulous and is inclined too much to poison and the ballet. its gods are ludicrous. the east still reeks too much of hairy animals. its lights and shadows are barbarously crude and too bright to make it worth while for a refined artist as i am to go into that crowded, foul circus tent. ah, my friend, i am so vain that i even begin this diary not without the secret intention of impressing you with my modesty in the rã´le of _seeker_ of words and comparisons. i hope you will not take advantage of my frankness and cease believing me. are there any other questions? of the play itself i have no clear idea yet. it will be composed by the same impresario who will assemble the actors--_fate_. my modest rã´le, as a beginning, will be that of a man who so loves his fellow beings that he is willing to give them everything, his soul and his money. of course, you have not forgotten that i am a billionaire? i have three billion dollars. sufficient--is it not?--for one spectacular performance. one more detail before i conclude this page. i have with me, sharing my fate, a certain irwin toppi, my secretary,--a most worthy person in his black frock coat and silk top hat, his long nose resembling an unripened pear and his smoothly shaven, pastor-like face. i would not be surprised to find a prayer book in his pocket. my toppi came upon this earth from _there_, i.e. from hell and by the same means as mine: he, too, assumed the human form and, it seems, quite successfully--the rogue is entirely immune from seasickness. however to be seasick one must have some brains and my toppi is unusually stupid--even for this earth. besides, he is impolite and ventures to offer advice. i am rather sorry that out of our entire wealth of material i did not select some one better, but i was impressed by his honesty and partial familiarity with the earth: it seemed more pleasant to enter upon this little jaunt with an experienced comrade. quite a long time ago he once before assumed the human form and was so taken by religious sentiments that--think of it!--he entered a franciscan monastery, lived there to a ripe old age and died peacefully under the name of brother vincent. his ashes became the object of veneration for believers--not a bad career for a fool of a devil. no sooner did he enter upon this trip with me than he began to sniff about for incense--an incurable habit! you will probably like him. and now enough. get thee hence, my friend. i wish to be alone. your shallow reflection upon this wall wears upon me. i wish to be alone or only with this wondergood who has leased his abode to me and seems to have gotten the best of me somehow or other. the sea is calm. i am no longer nauseated but i am afraid of something. i am afraid! i fear this darkness which they call night and descends upon the ocean: here, in the cabin there is still some light, but there, on deck, there is terrible darkness, and my eyes are quite helpless. these silly reflectors--they are worthless. they are able to reflect things by day but in the darkness they lose even this miserable power. of course i shall get used to the darkness. i have already grown used to many things. but just now i am ill at ease and it is horrible to think that the mere turn of a key obsesses me with this blind ever present darkness. whence does it come? and how brave men are with their dim reflectors: they see nothing and simply say: it is dark here, we must make a light! then they themselves put it out and go to sleep. i regard these braves with a kind of cold wonder and i am seized with admiration. or must one possess a great mind to appreciate horror, like mine? you are not such a coward, wondergood. you always bore the reputation of being a hardened man and a man of experience! there is one moment in the process of my assumption of the human form that i cannot recollect without horror. that was when for the first time i heard the beating of my heart. this regular, loud, metronome-like sound, which speaks as much of death as of life, filled me with the hitherto inexperienced sensation of horror. men are always quarrelling about accounts, but how can they carry in their breasts _this_ counting machine, registering with the speed of a magician the fleeting seconds of life? at first i wanted to shout and to run back _below_, before i could grow accustomed to life, but here i looked at toppi: this new-born fool was calmly brushing his top hat with the sleeve of his frock coat. i broke out into laughter and cried: "toppi, the brush!" we both brushed ourselves while the counting machine in my breast was computing the seconds and, it seemed to me, adding on a few for good measure. finally, hearing its brazen beating, i thought i might not have time enough to finish my toillette. i have been in a great hurry for some time. just what it was i would not be able to complete i did not know, but for two days i was in a mad rush to eat and drink and even sleep: the counting machine was beating away while i lay in slumber! but i never rush now. i know that i will manage to get through and my moments seem inexhaustible. but the little machine keeps on beating just the same, like a drunken soldier at a drum. and how about the very moments it is using up now. are they to be counted as equal to the great ones? then i say it is all a fraud and i protest as a honest citizen of the united states and as a merchant. i do not feel well. yet i would not repulse even a friend at this moment. ah! in all the universe i am alone! february 7, 1914. rome, hotel "internationale." i am driven mad whenever i am compelled to seize the club of a policeman to bring order in my brain: facts, to the right! thoughts, to the left! moods, to the rear--clear the road for his highness, conscience, which barely moves about upon its stilts. i am compelled to do this: otherwise there would be a riot, an abrecadebra, chaos. and so i call you to order, gentleman--facts and lady-thoughts. i begin. night. darkness. the air is balmy. there is a pleasant fragrance. toppi is enchanted. we are in italy. our speeding train is approaching rome. we are enjoying our soft couches when, suddenly, crash! everything flies to the devil: the train has gone out of its mind. it is wrecked. i confess without shame that i am not very brave, that i was seized with terror and seemed to have lost consciousness. the lights were extinguished and with much labor i crawled out of the corner into which i had been hurled. i seemed to have forgotten the exit. there were only walls and corners. i felt something stinging and beating at me, and all about nothing but darkness. suddenly i felt a body beneath my feet. i stepped right upon the face. only afterwards did i discover that the body was that of george, my lackey, killed outright. i shouted and my obliging toppi came to my aid: he seized me by the arm and led me to an open window, as both exits had been barricaded by fragments of the car and baggage. i leaped out, but toppi lingered behind. my knees were trembling. i was groaning but still he failed to appear. i shouted. suddenly he reappeared at the window and shouted back: "what are you crying about? i am looking for our hats and your portfolio." a few moments later he returned and handed me my hat. he himself had his silk top hat on and carried the portfolio. i shook with laughter and said: "young man, you have forgotten the umbrella!" but the old buffoon has no sense of humor. he replied seriously: "i do not carry an umbrella. and do you know, our george is dead and so is the chef." so, this fallen carcass which has no feelings and upon whose face one steps with impunity is our george! i was again seized with terror and suddenly my ears were pierced with groans, wild shrieks, whistlings and cries! all the sounds wherewith these braves wail when they are crushed. at first i was deafened. i heard nothing. the cars caught fire. the flames and smoke shot up into the air. the wounded began to groan and, without waiting for the flesh to roast, i darted like a flash into the field. what a leap! fortunately the low hills of the roman campagna are very convenient for this kind of sport and i was no means behind in the line of runners. when, out of breath, i hurled myself upon the ground, it was no longer possible to hear or see anything. only toppi was approaching. but what a terrible thing this heart is! my face touched the earth. the earth was cool, firm, calm and here i liked it. it seemed as if it had restored my breath and put my heart back into its place. i felt easier. the stars above were calm. there was nothing for them to get excited about. they were not concerned with things below. they merely shine in triumph. that is their eternal ball. and at this brilliant ball the earth, clothed in darkness, appeared as an enchanting stranger in a black mask. (not at all badly expressed? i trust that you, my reader, will be pleased: my style and my manners are improving!) i kissed toppi in the darkness. i always kiss those i like in the darkness. and i said: "you are carrying your human form, toppi, very well. i respect you. but what are we to do now? those lights yonder in the sky--they are the lights of rome. but they are too far away!" "yes, it is rome," affirmed toppi, and raised his hand: "do you hear whistling?" from somewhere in the distance came the long-drawn, piercing, shrieking of locomotives. they were sounding the alarm. "yes, they are whistling," i said and laughed. "they are whistling!" repeated toppi smiling. he never laughs. but here again i began to feel uncomfortable. i was cold, lonely, quivering. in my feet there was still the sensation of treading upon corpses. i wanted to shake myself like a dog after a bath. you must understand me: it was the first time that i had seen and felt your corpse, my dear reader, and if you pardon me, it did not appeal to me at all. why did it not protest when i walked over its face? george had such a beautiful young face and he carried himself with much dignity. remember your face, too, may be trod upon. and will you, too, remain submissive? we did not proceed to rome but went instead in search of the nearest night lodging. we walked long. we grew tired. we longed to drink, oh, how we longed to drink! and now, permit me to present to you my new friend, signor thomas magnus and his beautiful daughter, maria. at first we observed the faint flicker of a light. as we approached nearer we found a little house, its white walls gleaming through a thicket of dark cypress trees and shrubbery. there was a light in one of the windows, the rest were barricaded with shutters. the house had a stone fence, an iron gate, strong doors. and--silence. at first glance it all looked suspicious. toppi knocked. again silence. i knocked. still silence. finally there came a gruff voice, asking from behind the iron door: "who are you? what do you want?" hardly mumbling with his parched tongue, my brave toppi narrated the story of the catastrophe and our escape. he spoke at length and then came the click of a lock and the door was opened. following behind our austere and silent stranger we entered the house, passed through several dark and silent rooms, walked up a flight of creaking stairs into a brightly lighted room, apparently the stranger's workroom. there was much light, many books, with one open beneath a low lamp shaded by a simple, green globe. we had not noticed this light in the field. but what astonished me was the silence of the house. despite the rather early hour not a move, not a sound, not a voice was to be heard. "have a seat." we sat down and toppi, now almost in pain, began again to narrate his story. but the strange host interrupted him: "yes, a catastrophe. they often occur on our roads. were there many victims?" toppi continued his prattle and the host, while listening to him, took a revolver out of his pocket and hid it in a table drawer, adding carelessly: "this is not--a particularly quiet neighborhood. well, please, remain here." for the first time he raised his dark eyebrows and his large dim eyes and studied us intently as if he were gazing upon something savage in a museum. it was an impolite and brazen stare. i arose and said: "i fear that we are not welcome here, signor, and----" he stopped me with an impatient and slightly sarcastic gesture. "nonsense, you remain here. i will get you some wine and food. my servant is here in the daytime only, so allow me to wait on you. you will find the bathroom behind this door. go wash and freshen up while i get the wine. make yourself at home." while we ate and drank--with savage relish, i confess--this unsympathetic gentleman kept on reading a book as if there were no one else in the room, undisturbed by toppi's munching and the dog's struggle with a bone. i studied my host carefully. almost my height, his pale face bore an expression of weariness. he had a black, oily, bandit-like beard. but his brow was high and his nose betrayed good sense. how would you describe it? well, here again i seek comparisons. imagine the nose betraying the story of a great, passionate, extraordinary, secret life. it is beautiful and seems to have been made not out of muscle and cartilage, but out of--what do you call it?--out of thoughts and brazen desires. he seems quite brave too. but i was particularly attracted by his hands: very big, very white and giving the impression of self-control. i do not know why his hands attracted me so much. but suddenly i thought: how beautifully exact the number of fingers, exactly ten of them, ten thin, evil, wise, crooked fingers! i said politely: "thank you, signor----" he replied: "my name is magnus. thomas magnus. have some wine? americans?" i waited for toppi to introduce me, according to the english custom, and i looked toward magnus. one had to be an ignorant, illiterate animal not to know me. toppi broke in: "mr. henry wondergood of illinois. his secretary, irwin toppi, your obedient servant. yes, citizens of the united states." the old buffoon blurted out his tirade, evincing a thorough lack of pride, and magnus--yes, he was a little startled. billions, my friend, billions. he gazed at me long and intently: "mr. wondergood? henry wondergood? are you not, sir, that american billionaire who seeks to bestow upon humanity the benefits of his billions?" i modestly shook my head in the affirmative. "yes, i am the gentleman." toppi shook his head in affirmation--the ass: "yes, we are the gentlemen." magnus bowed and said with a tinge of irony in his voice: "humanity is awaiting you, mr. wondergood. judging by the roman newspapers it is extremely impatient. but i must crave your pardon for this very modest meal: i did not know...." i seized his large, strangely warm hand and shaking it violently, in american fashion, i said: "nonsense, signor magnus. i was a swine-herd before i became a billionaire, while you are a straightforward, honest and noble gentleman, whose hand i press with the utmost respect. the devil take it, not a single human face has yet aroused in me as much sympathy as yours!" magnus said.... magnus said nothing! i cannot continue this: "i said," "he said,"--this cursed consistency is deadly to my inspiration. it transforms me into a silly romanticist of a boulevard sheet and makes me lie like a mediocrity. i have five senses. i am a complete human being and yet i speak only of the hearing. and how about the sight? i assure you it did not remain idle. and this sensation of the earth, of italy, of my existence which i now perceive with a new and sweet strength! you imagine that all i did was to listen to wise thomas magnus. he speaks and i gaze, understand, answer, while i think: what a beautiful earth, what a beautiful campagna di roma! i persisted in penetrating the recesses of the house, into its locked silent rooms. with every moment my joy mounted at the thought that i am alive, that i can speak and play and, suddenly, i rather liked the idea of being human. i remember that i held out my card to magnus. "henry wondergood." he was surprised, but laid the card politely on the table. i felt like implanting a kiss on his brow for this politeness, for the fact that he too was human. i, too, am human. i was particularly proud of my foot encased in a fine, tan leather shoe and i persisted in swinging it: swing on beautiful, human, american foot! i was extremely emotional that evening! i even wanted to weep: to look my host straight in the eyes and to squeeze out of my own eyes, so full of love and goodness, two little tears. i actually did it, for at that moment i felt a little pleasant sting in my nose, as if it had been hit by a spurt of lemonade. i observed that my two little tears made an impression upon magnus. but toppi!--while i experienced this wondrous poem of feeling human and even of weeping,--he slept like a dead one at the very same table. i was rather angered. this was really going too far. i wanted to shout at him, but magnus restrained me: "he has had a good deal of excitement and is weary, mr. wondergood." the hour had really grown late. we had been talking and arguing with magnus for two hours when toppi fell asleep. i sent him off to bed while we continued to talk and drink for quite a while. i drank more wine, but magnus restrained himself. there was a dimness about his face. i was beginning to develop an admiration for his grim and, at times, evil, secretive countenance. he said: "i believe in your altruistic passion, mr. wondergood. but i do not believe that you, a man of wisdom and of action, and, it seems to me, somewhat cold, could place any serious hopes upon your money----" "three billion dollars--that is a mighty power, magnus!" "yes, three billion dollars, a mighty power, indeed," he agreed, rather unwillingly--"but what will you do with it?" i laughed. "you probably want to say what can this ignoramus of an american, this erstwhile swine-herd, who knows swine better than he knows men, do with the money?" "the first business helps the other," said magnus. "i dare say you have but a slight opinion of this foolish philanthropist whose head has been turned by his gold," said i. "yes, to be sure, what can i do? i can open another university in chicago, or another maternity hospital in san francisco, or another humanitarian reformatory in new york." "the latter would be a distinct work of mercy," quoth magnus. "do not gaze at me with such reproach, mr. wondergood: i am not jesting. you will find in me the same pure love for humanity which burns so fiercely in you." he was laughing at me and i felt pity for him: not to love people! miserable, unfortunate magnus. i could kiss his brow with great pleasure! not to love people! "yes, i do not love them," affirmed magnus, "but i am glad that you do not intend to travel the conventional road of all american philanthropists. your billions----" "three billions, magnus! one could build a nation on this money----" "yes?----" "or destroy a nation," said i. "with this gold, magnus, one can start a war or a revolution----" "yes?----" i actually succeeded in arousing his interest: his large white hands trembled slightly and in his eyes there gleamed for a moment a look of respect: "you, wondergood, are not as foolish as i thought!" he arose, paced up and down the room, and halting before me asked sneeringly: "and you know exactly what your humanity needs most: the creation of a new or the destruction of the old state? war or peace? rest or revolution? who are you, mr. wondergood of illinois, that you essay to solve _these_ problems? you had better keep on building your maternity hospitals and universities. that is far less dangerous work." i liked the man's hauteur. i bowed my head modestly and said: "you are right, signor magnus. who am i, henry wondergood, to undertake the solution of these problems? but i do not intend to solve them. i merely indicate them. i indicate them and i seek the solution. i seek the solution and the man who can give it to me. i have never read a serious book carefully. i see you have quite a supply of books here. you are a misanthrope, magnus. you are too much of a european not to be easily disillusioned in things, while we, young america, believe in humanity. a man must be created. you in europe are bad craftsmen and have created a bad man. we shall create a better one. i beg your pardon for my frankness. as long as i was merely henry wondergood i devoted myself only to the creation of pigs--and my pigs, let me say to you, have been awarded no fewer medals and decorations than field marshal moltke. but now i desire to create people." magnus smiled: "you are an alchemist, wondergood: you would transform lead into gold!" "yes, i want to create gold and i seek the philosopher's stone. but has it not already been found? it has been found, only you do not know how to use it: it is love. ah, magnus, i do not know yet what i will do, but my plans are heroic and magnificent. if not for that misanthropic smile of yours i might go further. believe in man, magnus, and give me your aid. you know what man needs most." he said coldly and with sadness: "he needs prisons and gallows." i exclaimed in anger (i am particularly adept in feigning anger): "you are slandering me, magnus! i see that you must have experienced some very great misfortune, perhaps treachery and----" "hold on, wondergood! i never speak of myself and do not like to hear others speak of me. let it be sufficient for you to know that you are the first man in four years to break in upon my solitude and this only due to chance. i do not like people." "oh, pardon. but i do not believe it." magnus went over to the bookcase and with an expression of supreme contempt he seized the first volume he laid his hands upon. "and you who have read no books," he said, "do you know what these books are about? only about evil, about the mistakes and sufferings of humanity. they are filled with tears and blood, wondergood. look: in this thin little book which i clasp between two fingers is contained a whole ocean of human blood, and if you should take all of them together----. and who has spilled this blood? the devil?" i felt flattered and wanted to bow in acknowledgment, but he threw the book aside and shouted: "no, sir: man! man has spilled this blood! yes, i do read books but only for one purpose; to learn how to hate man and to hold him in contempt. you, wondergood, have transformed your pigs into gold, yes? and i can see how your gold is being transformed back again into pigs. they will devour you, wondergood. but i do not wish either to prattle or to lie: throw your money into the sea or--build some new prisons and gallows. you are vain like all men. then go on building gallows. you will be respected by serious people, while the flock in general will call you great. or, don't you, american from illinois, want to get into the pantheon?" "no, magnus!----" "blood!" cried magnus. "can't you see that it is everywhere? here it is on your boot now----" i confess that at the moment magnus appeared to be insane. i jerked my foot in sudden fear and only then did i perceive a dark, reddish spot on my shoe--how dastardly! magnus smiled and immediately regaining his composure continued calmly and without emotion: "i have unwittingly startled you, mr. wondergood? nonsense! you probably stepped on something inadvertently. a mere trifle. but this conversation, a conversation i have not conducted for a number of years, makes me uneasy and--good night, mr. wondergood. to-morrow i shall have the honor of presenting you to my daughter, and now you will permit me----" and so on. in short, this gentleman conducted me to my room in a most impolite manner and well nigh put me to bed. i offered no resistance: why should i? i must say that i did not like him at this moment. i was even pleased when he turned to go but, suddenly, he turned at the very threshold and stepping forward, stretched out his large white hands. and murmured: "do you see these hands? there is blood on them! let it be the blood of a scoundrel, a torturer, a tyrant, but it is the same, red human blood. good night!" --he spoiled my night for me. i swear by eternal salvation that on that night i felt great pleasure in being a man, and i made myself thoroughly at home in his narrow human skin. it made me feel uncomfortable in the armpits. you see, i bought it ready made and thought that it would be as comfortable as if it had been made to measure! i was highly emotional. i was extremely good and affable. i was very eager to play, but i was not inclined to tragedy! blood! how can any person of good breeding thrust his white hands under the nose of a stranger--hangmen have very white hands! do not think i am jesting. i did not feel well. in the daytime i still manage to subdue wondergood but at night he lays his hands upon me. it is he who fills me with his silly dreams and shakes within me his entire dusty archive--and how godlessly silly and meaningless are his dreams! he fusses about within me all night long like a returned master, seems to be looking about for something, grumbles about losses and wear and tear and sneezes and cavorts about like a dog lying uncomfortable on its bed. it is he who draws me in at night like a mass of wet lime into the depths of miserable humanity, where i nearly choke to death. when i awake in the morning i feel that wondergood has infused ten more degrees of human into me--think of it: he may soon eject me all together and leave me standing outside--he, the miserable owner of an empty barn into which i brought breath and soul! like a hurried thief i crawled into a stranger's clothes, the pockets of which are bulging with forged promissory notes--no, still worse! it is not only uncomfortable attire. it is a low, dark and stifling jail, wherein i occupy less space than a ring might in the stomach of wondergood. you, my dear reader, have been hidden in your prison from childhood and you even seem to like it, but i--i come from the kingdom of liberty. and i refuse to be wondergood's tape worm: one swallow of poison and i am free again. what will you say then, scoundrel wondergood? without me you will be devoured by the worms. you will crack open at the seams--miserable carcass! touch me not! on this night however i was in the absolute power of wondergood. what is human blood to me? what do i care about the troubles of _their_ life! but wondergood was quite aroused by the crazy magnus. suddenly i felt--just think of it--! that i am filled with blood, like the bladder of an ox, and the bladder is very thin and weak, so that it would be dangerous to prick it. prick it and out spurts the blood! i was terrified at the idea that i might be killed in this house: that some one might cut my throat and turning me upside down, hanging by the legs, would let the blood run out upon the floor. i lay in the darkness and strained my ears to hear whether or not magnus was approaching with his white hands. and the greater the silence in this cursed house the more terrified i grew. even toppi failed to snore as usual. this made me angry. then my body began to ache. perhaps i was injured in the wreck, or was it weariness brought on by the flight? then my body began to itch in the most ordinary way and i even began to move the feet: it was the appearance of the jovial clown in the tragedy! suddenly a dream seized me by the feet and dragged me rapidly below. i hardly had time enough to shout. and what nonsense arose before me! do you ever have such dreams? i felt that i was a bottle of champagne, with a thin neck and sealed, but filled not with wine but with blood! and it seemed that not only i but all people had become bottles with sealed tops and all of us were arranged in a row on a seashore. and, someone horrible was approaching from somewhere and wanted to smash us all. and i saw how foolish it would be to do so and wanted to shout: "don't smash them. get a corkscrew!" but i had no voice. i was a bottle. suddenly the dead lackey george approached. in his hands was a huge sharp corkscrew. he said something and seized me by the throat--ah, ah, by the throat!---i awoke in pain. apparently he did try to open me up. my wrath was so great that i neither sighed nor smiled nor moved. i simply killed wondergood again. i gnashed my teeth, straightened out my eyes, closed them calmly, stretched out at full length and lay peacefully in the full consciousness of the greatness of my ego. had the ocean itself moved up on me i would not have batted an eye! get thee hence, my friend, i wish to be alone. and the body grew silent, colorless, airy and empty again. with light step i left it and before my eyes there arose a vision of the _extraordinary_, that which cannot be expressed in your language, my poor friend! satisfy your curiosity with the dream i have just confided to you and ask no more! or does not the "huge, sharp corkscrew" suit you? but it is so--artistic! * * * * * in the morning i was well again, refreshed and beautiful. i yearned for the play, like an actor who has just left his dressing room. of course i did not forget to shave. this canaille wondergood gets overgrown with hair as quickly as his golden skinned pigs. i complained about this to toppi with whom, while waiting for magnus, i was walking in the garden. and toppi, thinking a while, replied philosophically: "yes, man sleeps and his beard grows. this is as it should be--for the barbers!" magnus appeared. he was no more hospitable than yesterday and his pale face carried unmistakable indications of weariness. but he was calm and polite. how black his beard is in the daytime! he pressed my hand in cold politeness and said: (we were perched on a wall.) "you are enjoying the roman campagna, mr. wondergood? a magnificent sight! it is said that the campagna is noted for its fevers, but there is but one fever it produces in me--the fever of thought!" apparently wondergood did not have much of a liking for nature, and i have not yet managed to develop a taste for earthly landscape: an empty field for me. i cast my eyes politely over the countryside before us and said: "people interest me more, signor magnus." he gazed at me intently with his dark eyes and lowering his voice said dryly and with apparent reluctance: "just two words about people, mr. wondergood. you will soon see my daughter, maria. she is my three billions. you understand?" i nodded my head in approval. "but your california does not produce such gold. neither does any other country on this dirty earth. it is the gold of the heavens. i am not a believer, mr. wondergood, but even i experience some doubts when i meet the gaze of my maria. hers are the only hands into which you might without the slightest misgiving place your billions----" i am an old bachelor and i was overcome with fear, but magnus continued sternly with a ring of triumph in his voice: "but she will not accept them, sir! her gentle hands must never touch this golden dirt. her clean eyes will never behold any sight but that of this endless, godless campagna. here is her monastery, mr. wondergood, and there is but one exit for her from here: into the kingdom of heaven, if it does exist!" "i beg your pardon but i cannot understand this, my dear magnus!" i protested in great joy. "life and people----" the face of thomas magnus grew angry, as it did yesterday, and in stern ridicule, he interrupted me: "and i beg you to grasp, _dear_ wondergood, that life and people are not for maria. it is enough that i know them. my duty was to _warn_ you. and now"--he again assumed the attitude of cold politeness--"i ask you to come to my table. you too, mr. toppi!" we had begun to eat, and were chattering of small matters, when _maria_ entered. the door through which she entered was behind my back. i mistook her soft step for those of the maid carrying the dishes, but i was astonished by the long-nosed toppi, sitting opposite me. his eyes grew round like circles, his face red, as if he were choking. his adam's apple seemed to be lifted above his neck as if driven by a wave, and to disappear again somewhere behind his narrow, ministerial collar. of course, i thought he was choking to death with a fishbone and shouted: "toppi! what is the matter with you? take some water." but magnus was already on his feet, announcing coldly: "my daughter, maria. mr. henry wondergood!" i turned about quickly and--how can i express the extraordinary when it is inexpressible? it was something more than beautiful. it was terrible in its beauty. i do not want to seek comparisons. i shall leave that to you. take all that you have ever seen or ever known of the beautiful on earth: the lily, the stars, the sun, but add, add still more. but not this was the awful aspect of it: there was something else: the elusive yet astonishing similarity--to whom? whom have i met upon this earth who was so beautiful--so beautiful and awe-inspiring--awe-inspiring and unapproachable. i have learned by this time your entire archive, wondergood, and i do not believe that it comes from your modest gallery! "madonna!" mumbled toppi in a hoarse voice, scared out of his wits. so that is it! yes, madonna. the fool was right, and i, satan, could understand his terror. madonna, whom people see only in churches, in paintings, in the imagination of artists. maria, the name which rings only in hymns and prayer books, heavenly beauty, mercy, forgiveness and love! star of the seas! do you like that name: star of the seas? it was really devilishly funny. i made a deep bow and almost blurted out: "madam, i beg pardon for my unbidden intrusion, but i really did not expect to meet you _here_. i most humbly beg your pardon, but i could not imagine that this black bearded fellow has the honor of having you for his daughter. a thousand times i crave your pardon for----" but enough. i said something else. "how do you do, signorina. it is indeed a pleasure." and she really did not indicate in any way that she was _already_ acquainted with me. one must respect an incognito if one would remain a gentleman and only a scoundrel would dare to tear a mask from a lady's face! this would have been all the more impossible, because her father, thomas magnus, continued to urge us with a chuckle: "do eat, please, mr. toppi. why do you not drink, mr. wondergood? the wine is splendid." in the course of what followed: 1. she breathed- 2. she blinked- 3. she ate-and she was a beautiful girl, about eighteen years of age, and her dress was white and her throat bare. it was really laughable. i gazed at her bare neck and--believe me, my earthly friend: i am not easily seduced, i am not a romantic youth, but i am not old by any means, i am not at all bad looking, i enjoy an independent position in the world and--don't you like the combination: satan and _maria_? _maria_ and satan! in evidence of the seriousness of my intentions i can submit at that moment i thought more of _our_ descendants and sought a name for _our_ first-born than indulged in frivolity. suddenly toppi's adam's apple gave a jerk and he inquired hoarsely: "has any one ever painted your portrait, signorina?" "maria never poses for painters!" broke in magnus sternly. i felt like laughing at the fool toppi. i had already opened wide my mouth, filled with a set of first-class american teeth, when maria's pure gaze pierced my eyes and everything flew to the devil,--as in that moment of the railway catastrophe! you understand: she turned me inside out, like a stocking--or how shall i put it? my fine parisian costume was driven inside of me and my still finer thoughts which, however, i would not have wanted to convey to the lady, suddenly appeared upon the surface. with all my secrecy i was left no more sealed than a room in a fifteen cent lodging house. but she _forgave_ me, said nothing and threw her gaze like a projector in the direction of toppi, illumining his entire body. you, too, would have laughed had you seen how this poor old devil was set aglow and aflame by this gaze--clear from the prayer book to the fishbone with which he nearly choked to death. fortunately for both of us magnus arose and invited us to follow him into the garden. "come, let us go into the garden," said he. "maria will show you her favorite flowers." yes, maria! but seek no songs of praise from me, oh poet! i was mad! i was as provoked as a man whose closet has just been ransacked by a burglar. i wanted to gaze at maria but was compelled to look upon the foolish flowers--because i dared not lift my eyes. i am a gentleman and cannot appear before a lady without a necktie. i was seized by a curious humility. do you like to feel humble? i do not. i do not know what maria said. but i swear by eternal salvation--her gaze, and her entire uncanny countenance was the embodiment of an all-embracing meaning so that any wise word i might have uttered would have sounded meaningless. the wisdom of words is necessary only for those poor in spirit. the right are silent. take note of that, little poet, sage and eternal chatterbox, wherever you may be. let it be sufficient for you that i have humbled myself to speak. ah, but i have forgotten my humility! she walked and i and toppi crawled after her. i detested myself and this broad-backed toppi because of his hanging nose and large, pale ears. what was needed here was an apollo and not a pair of ordinary americans. we felt quite relieved when she had gone and we were left alone with magnus. it was all so sweet and simple! toppi abandoned his religious airs and i crossed my legs comfortably, lit a cigar, and fixed my steel-sharp gaze upon the whites of magnus's eyes. "you must be off to rome, mr. wondergood. they are probably worrying about you," said our host in a tone of loving concern. "i can send toppi," i replied. he smiled and added ironically: "i hardly think that would be sufficient, mr. wondergood!" i sought to clasp his great white hand but it did not seem to move closer. but i caught it just the same, pressed it warmly and he was compelled to return the pressure! "very well, signor magnus! i am off at once!" i said. "i have already sent for the carriage," he replied. "is not the campagna beautiful in the morning?" i again took a polite look at the country-side and said with emotion: "yes, it is beautiful! irwin, my friend, leave us for a moment. i have a few words to say to signor magnus----" toppi left and signor magnus opened wide his big sad eyes. i again tried my steel on him, and bending forward closer to his dark face, i asked: "have you ever observed _dear_ magnus, the very striking resemblance between your daughter, the signorina maria, and a certain--celebrated personage? don't you think she resembles the madonna?" "madonna?" drawled out magnus. "no, _dear_ wondergood, i haven't noticed that. i never go to church. but i fear you will be late. the roman fever----" i again seized his white hand and shook it vigorously. no, i did not tear it off. and from my eyes there burst forth again _those_ two tears: "let us speak plainly, signor magnus," said i. "i am a straightforward man and have grown to love you. do you want to come along with me and be the lord of my billions?" magnus was silent. his hand lay motionless in mine. his eyes were lowered and something dark seemed to pass over his face, then immediately to disappear. finally he said, seriously and simply: "i understand you, mr. wondergood--but i must refuse. no, i will not go with you. i have failed to tell you one thing, but your frankness and confidence in me compels me to say that i must, to a certain extent, steer clear of the police." "the roman police," i asked, betraying a slight excitement. "nonsense, we shall buy it." "no, the international," he replied. "i hope you do not think that i have committed some base crime. the trouble is not with police which can be bought. you are right, mr. wondergood, when you say that one can buy almost any one. the truth is that i can be of no use to you. what do you want me for? you love humanity and i detest it. at best i am indifferent to it. let it live and not interfere with me. leave me my maria, leave me the right and strength to detest people as i read the history of their life. leave me my campagna and that is all i want and all of which i am capable. all the oil within me has burned out, wondergood. you see before you an extinguished lamp hanging on a wall, a lamp which once--goodbye." "i do not ask your confidence, magnus," i interjected. "pardon me, you will never receive it, mr. wondergood. my name is an invention but it is the only one i can offer to my friends." to tell the truth: i liked "thomas magnus" at that moment. he spoke bravely and simply. in his face one could read stubbornness and will. this man knew the value of human life and had the mien of one condemned to death. but it was the mien of a proud, uncompromising criminal, who will never accept the ministrations of a priest! for a moment i thought: my father had many bastard children, deprived of legacy and wandering about the world. perhaps thomas magnus is one of these wanderers? and is it possible that i have met a _brother_ on this earth? very interesting. but from a purely human, business point of view, one cannot help but respect a man whose hands are steeped in blood! i saluted, changed my position, and in the humblest possible manner, asked magnus's permission to visit him occasionally and seek his advice. he hesitated but finally looked me straight in the face and agreed. "very well, mr. wondergood. you may come. i hope to hear from you things that may supplement the knowledge i glean from my books. and, by the way, mr. toppi has made an excellent impression upon my maria"---"toppi?" "yes. she has found a striking resemblance between him and one of her favorite saints. she goes to church frequently." toppi a saint! or has his prayer book overbalanced his huge back and the fishbone in his throat. magnus gazed at me almost gently and only his thin nose seemed to tremble slightly with restrained laughter.--it is very pleasant to know that behind this austere exterior there is so much quiet and restrained merriment! it was twilight when we left. magnus followed us to the threshold, but maria remained in seclusion. the little white house surrounded by the cypress trees was as quiet and silent as we found it yesterday, but the silence was of a different character: the silence was the soul of maria. i confess that i felt rather sad at this departure but very soon came a new series of impressions, which dispelled this feeling. we were approaching rome. we entered the brightly illuminated, densely populated streets through some opening in the city wall and the first thing we saw in the eternal city was a creaking trolley car, trying to make its way through the same hole in the wall. toppi, who was acquainted with rome, revelled in the familiar atmosphere of the churches we were passing and indicated with his long finger the _remnants_ of ancient rome which seemed to be clinging to the huge wall of the new structures: just as if the latter had been bombarded with the shells of old and fragments of the missiles had clung to the bricks. here and there we came upon additional heaps of this old rubbish. above a low parapet of stone, we observed a dark shallow ditch and a large triumphal gate, half sunk in the earth. "the forum!" exclaimed toppi, majestically. our coachman nodded his head in affirmation. with every new pile of old stone and brick the fellow swelled with pride, while i longed for my new york and its skyscrapers, and tried to calculate the number of trucks that would be necessary to clear these heaps of rubbish called ancient rome away before morning. when i mentioned this to toppi he was insulted and replied: "you don't understand anything: better close your eyes and just reflect that you are in rome." i did so and was again convinced that sight is as much of an impediment to the mind as sound: not without reason are all wise folk on the earth blind and all good musicians deaf. like toppi i began to sniff the air and through my sense of smell i gathered more of rome and its horribly long and highly entertaining history than hitherto: thus a decaying leaf in the woods smells stronger than the young and green foliage. will you believe me when i say that i sensed the odor of blood and nero? but when i opened my eyes expectantly i observed a plain, everyday kiosk and a lemonade stand. "well, how do you like it?" growled toppi, still dissatisfied. "it smells----" "well, certainly it smells! it will smell stronger with every hour: these are old, strong aromas, mr. wondergood." and so it really was: the odor grew in strength. i cannot find comparisons to make it clear to you. all the sections of my brain began to move and buzz like bees aroused by smoke. it is strange, but it seems that rome is included in the archive of the silly wondergood. perhaps this is his native town? when we approached a certain populous square i sensed the clear odor of some blood relatives, which was soon followed by the conviction that i, too, have walked these streets before. have i, like toppi, previously donned the human form? ever louder buzzed the bees. my entire beehive buzzed and suddenly thousands of faces, dim and white, beautiful and horrible, began to dance before me; thousands upon thousands of voices, noises, cries, laughters and sighs nearly set me deaf. no, this was no longer a beehive: it was a huge, fiery smithy, where firearms were being forged with the red sparks flying all about. iron! of course, if i had lived in rome before, i must have been one of its emperors: i _remember_ the expression of my face. i remember the movement of my bare neck as i turn my head. i remember the touch of golden laurels upon my bald head--iron! ah, i hear the steps of the iron legions of rome. i hear the iron voices: "vivat cã¦sar!" i am hot. i am burning. or was i not an emperor but simply one of the "victims" when rome burned down in accordance with the magnificent plan of nero? no, this is not a fire. this is a funeral pyre on which i am forcibly esconsced. i hear the snake-like hissing of the tongues of flame beneath my feet. i strain my neck, all lined with blue veins, and in my throat there rises the final curse--or blessing? think of it: i even remember that roman face in the front row of spectators, which even then gave me no rest because of its idiotic expression and sleepy eyes: i am being burned and it sleeps! "hotel 'internationale'"--cried toppi, and i opened my eyes. we were going up a hill along a quiet street, at the end of which there glowed a large structure, worthy even of new york: it was the hotel where we had previously wired for reservations. they probably thought we had perished in the wreck. my funeral pyre was extinguished. i grew as merry as a darkey who has just escaped from hard labor and i whispered to toppi: "well, toppi, and how about the madonna?" "y-yes, interesting. i was frightened at first and nearly choked to death----" "with a bone? you are silly, toppi: she is polite and did not recognize you. she simply took you for one of her saints. it is a pity, old boy, that we have chosen for ourselves these solemn, american faces: had we looked around more carefully we might have found some more beautiful." "i am quite satisfied with mine," said toppi sadly, and turned away. a glow of secret self-satisfaction appeared upon his long, shiny nose. ah, toppi, ah, the saint! but we were already being accorded a triumphal reception. february 14. rome, hotel "internationale." i do not want to go to magnus. i am thinking too much of his madonna of flesh and bone. i have come here to lie and to play merrily and i am not at all taken by the prospect of being a mediocre actor, who weeps behind the scenes and appears on the stage with his eyes perfectly dry. moreover, i have no time to gad about the fields catching butterflies with a net like a boy. the whole of rome is buzzing about me. i am an extraordinary man, who loves his fellow beings and i am celebrated. the mobs who flock to worship me are no less numerous than those who worship the vicar of christ himself, two popes all at once.--yes, happy rome cannot consider itself an orphan! i am now living at the hotel, where all is aquiver with ecstacy when i put my shoes outside my door for the night, but they are renovating a palace for me: the historic villa orsini. painters, sculptors and poets are kept busy. one brush-pusher is already painting my portrait, assuring me that i remind him of one of the medicis. the other brush-pushers are sharpening their knives for him. i ask him: "and can you paint a madonna?" certainly he can. it was he, if the signor recollects, who painted the famous turk on the cigarette boxes, the turk whose fame is known even in america. and now three brush-pushers are painting madonnas for me. the rest are running about rome seeking models. i said to one, in my barbarous, american ignorance of the higher arts: "but if you find such a model, signor, just bring her to me. why waste paint and canvas?" he was evidently pained and mumbled: "ah, signor--a model?" i think he took me for a merchant in "live stock." but, fool, why do i need your aid for which i must pay a commission, when my ante-chamber is filled with a flock of beauties? they all worship me. i remind them of savanarola, and they seek to transform every dark corner in my drawing room, and every soft couch into a confessional. i am so glad that these society ladies, like the painters, know so well the history of their country and realize who i am. the joy of the roman papers on finding that i did not perish in the wreck and lost neither my legs nor my billions, was equal to the joy of the papers of jerusalem on the day of the resurrection of christ--in reality there was little cause for satisfaction on the part of the latter, as far as i am able to read history. i feared that i might remind the journalists of j. cã¦sar, but fortunately they think little of the past and confined themselves to pointing out my resemblance to president wilson. scoundrels! they were simply flattering my american patriotism. to the majority, however, i recall a prophet, but they do not know which one. on this point they are modestly silent. at any rate it is not mahomet: my opposition to marriage is well known at all telegraph stations. it is difficult to imagine the filth on which i fed my hungry interviewers. like an experienced swine-herd, i gaze with horror on the mess they feed upon. they eat and yet they live. although, i must admit, i do not see them growing fat! yesterday morning i flew in an aeroplane over rome and the campagna. you will probably ask whether i saw maria's home? no. i did not find it: how can one find a grain of sand among a myriad of other grains--but i really did not look for it: i felt horror-stricken at the great altitude. but my good interviewers, restless and impatient, were astounded by my coolness and courage. one fellow, strong, surly and bearded, who reminded me of hannibal, was the first to reach me after the flight, and asked: "did not the sensation of flying in the air, mr. wondergood, the feeling of having conquered the elements, thrill you with a sense of pride in man, who has subdued----" he repeated the question: they don't seem to trust me, somehow, and are always suggesting the proper answers. but i shrugged my shoulders and exclaimed sadly: "can you imagine signor--no! only once did i have a sense of pride in men and that was--in the lavatory on board the 'atlantic.'" "oh! in the lavatory! but what happened? a storm, and you were astounded by the genius of man, who has subdued----" "nothing extraordinary happened. but i was astounded by the genius of man who managed to create a palace out of such a disgusting necessity as a lavatory." "oh!" "a real temple, in which one is the arch priest!" "permit me to make a note of that. it is such an original--illumination of the problem----" and to-day the whole eternal city was feeding on this sally. not only did they not request me to leave the place, but on the contrary, this was the day of the first official visits to my apartments: something on the order of a minister of state, an ambassador or some other palace chef came and poured sugar and cinnamon all over me as if i were a pudding. later in the day i returned the visits: it is not very pleasant to keep such things. need i say that i have a nephew? every american millionaire has a nephew in europe. my nephew's name is also wondergood. he is connected with some legation, is very correct in manners and his bald spot is so oiled that my kiss could serve me as a breakfast were i fond of scented oil. but one must be willing to sacrifice something, especially the gratification of a sense of smell. the kiss cost me not a cent, while it meant a great deal to the young man. it opened for him a wide credit on soap and perfumery. but enough! when i look at these ladies and gentlemen and reflect that they are just as they were at the court of aschurbanipal and that for the past 2000 years the pieces of silver received by judas continue to bear interest, like his kiss--i grow bored with this old and threadbare play. ah, i want a great play. i seek originality and talent. i want beautiful lines and bold strokes. this company here casts me in the rã´le of an old brass band conductor. at times i come to the conclusion that it wasn't really worth my while to have undertaken such a long journey for the sake of this old drivel--to exchange ancient, magnificent and multi-colored hell for its miserable replica. in truth, i am sorry that magnus and his madonna refused to join me--we would have played a little--just a little! i have had but one interesting morning. in fact i was quite excited. the congregation of a so-called "free" church, composed of very serious men and women, who insist upon worshipping in accordance with the dictates of their conscience, invited me to deliver a sunday sermon. i donned a black frock coat, which gave me a close resemblance to--toppi, went through a number of particularly expressive gestures before my mirror and was driven in an automobile, like a prophet--moderne, to the service. i took as my subject or "text" jesus' advice to the rich youth to distribute his wealth among the poor--and in not more than half an hour, i demonstrated as conclusively as 2 and 2 make 4, that love of one's neighbor is the all important thing. like a practical and careful american, however, i pointed out that it was not necessary to try and go after the whole of the kingdom of heaven at one shot and to distribute one's wealth carelessly; that one can buy it up in lots on the instalment plan and by easy payments. the faces of the faithful bore a look of extreme concentration. they were apparently figuring out something and came to the conclusion that on the basis i suggested, the kingdom of heaven was attainable for the pockets of all of them. unfortunately, a number of my quick-witted compatriots were present in the congregation. one of them was about to rise to his feet to propose the formation of a stock company, when i realized the danger and frustrated this plan by letting loose a fountain of emotion, and thus extinguished his religiously practical zeal! what did i not talk about? i wept for my sad childhood, spent in labor and privation; i whined about my poor father who perished in a match factory. i prayed solemnly for all my brothers and sisters in christ. the swamp i created was so huge that the journalists caught enough wild ducks to last them for six months. how we wept! i shivered with the dampness and began to beat energetically the drum of my billions: dum-dum! everything for others, not a cent for me: dum-dum! with a brazenness worthy of the whip i concluded "with the words of the great teacher:" "come ye unto me all who are heavy-laden and weary and i will comfort ye!" ah, what a pity i cannot perform miracles! a little practical miracle, something on the order of transforming a bottle of water into one of sour chianti or some of the worshippers into pastry, would have gone a long way at that moment.--you laugh and are angry, my earthy reader? there is no reason for you to act thus. remember only that the _extraordinary_ cannot be expressed in your ventriloquist language and that my words are merely a cursed mask for my thoughts. maria! you will read of my success in the newspapers. there was one fool, however, who almost spoiled my day for me: he was a member of the salvation army. he came to see me and suggested that i immediately take up a trumpet and lead the army into battle--they were too cheap laurels he offered and i drove him out. but toppi--he was triumphantly silent all the way home and finally he said very respectfully: "you were in fine mettle to-day, mr. wondergood. i even wept. it is a pity that neither magnus nor his daughter heard you preach, she--she would have changed her opinion of us." you understand, of course, that i felt like kicking this admirer out of the carriage! i again felt in the pupils of my eyes the piercing sting of hers. the speed with which i was again turned inside out and spread out on a plate for the public's view is equal only to that with which an experienced waiter opens a can of conserves. i drew my top hat over my eyes, raised the collar of my coat and looking very much like a tragedian just hissed off the stage, i rode silently, and without acknowledging the greetings showered upon me, i proceeded to my apartments. ah, that gaze of maria! and how could i have acknowledged the greetings when i had no cane with me? i have declined all of to-day's invitations and am at home: i am engaged in "religious meditation"--this was how toppi announced it to the journalists. he has really begun to respect me. before me are whiskey and champagne. i am slowly filling up on the liquor while from the dining hall below come the distant strains of music. my wondergood was apparently considerable of a drunkard and every night he drags me to the wineshop, to which i interpose no objection. what's the difference? fortunately his intoxication is of a merry kind and we make quite a pleasant time of it. at first we cast our dull eyes over the furniture and involuntarily begin to calculate the value of all this bronze, these carpets, venetian mirrors, etc. "a trifle!" we agree, and with peculiar self-satisfaction we lose ourselves in the contemplation of our own billions, of our power and our remarkable wisdom and character. our bliss increases with each additional glass. with peculiar pleasure we wallow in the cheap luxury of the hotel, and--think of it!--i am actually beginning to have a liking for bronze, carpets, glass and stones. my puritan toppi condemns luxury. it reminds him of sodom and gommorah. but it is difficult for me to part with these little emotional pleasures. how silly of me! we continue to listen dully and half-heartedly to the music and venture to whistle some accompaniments. we add a little contemplation on the decollete of the ladies and then, with our step still firm, we proceed to our resting room. but we were just ready for bed when suddenly i felt as if some one had struck me a blow and i was immediately seized with a tempest of tears, of love and sadness. the extraordinary suddenly found expression. i grew as broad as space, as deep as eternity and i embraced all in a single breath! but, oh, what sadness! oh, what love, maria! but i am nothing more than a subterranean lake in the belly of wondergood and my storms in no way disturb his firm tread. i am only a solitaire in his stomach, of which he seeks to rid himself! we ring for the servants. "soda!" i am simply drunk. arrivederci, signor, buona notte! february 18, 1914. rome, hotel "internationale." yesterday i visited magnus. i was compelled to wait long for him, in the garden, and when he did appear he was so cold and indifferent that i felt like leaving. i observed a few gray hairs in his black beard. i had not noticed them before. was maria unwell? i appeared concerned. everything here is so uncertain that on leaving a person for one hour one may have to seek him in eternity." "maria is well, thank you," replied magnus, frigidly. he seemed surprised as if my question were presumptuous and improper. "and how are your affairs, mr. wondergood? the roman papers are filled with news of you. you are scoring a big success." with pain aggravated by the absence of maria, i revealed to magnus my disappointment and my ennui. i spoke well, not without wit and sarcasm. i grew more and more provoked by his lack of attention and interest, plainly written on his pale and weary face. not once did he smile or venture to put any questions, but when i reached the story of my "nephew" he frowned in displeasure and said: "fie! this is a cheap variety farce! how can you occupy yourself with such trifles, mr. wondergood?" i replied angrily: "but it is not i who am occupying myself with them, signor magnus!" "and how about the interviews? what about that flight of yours? you should drive them away. this humbles your...three billions. and is it true that you delivered some sort of a sermon?" the joy of play forsook me. unwilling as magnus was to listen to me, i told him all about my sermon and those credulous fools who swallowed sacrilege as they do marmalade. "and did you expect anything different, mr. wondergood?" "i expected that they would fall upon me with clubs for my audacity: when i sacrilegiously bandied about the words of the testament...." "yes, they are beautiful words," agreed magnus. "but didn't you know that all their worship of god and all their faith are nothing but sacrilege? when they term a wafer the body of christ, while some sixtus or pius reigns undisturbed, and with the approval of all catholics as the vicar of christ, why should not you, an american from illinois, call yourself at least...his governor? this is not meant as sacrilege, mr. wondergood. these are simply allegories, highly convenient for blockheads, and you are only wasting your wrath. but when will you get down to _business_?" i threw up my hands in skillfully simulated sorrow: "i _want_ to do something, but i _know_ not what to do. i shall probably never get down to business until you, magnus, agree to come to my aid." he frowned, at his own large, motionless, white hands and then at me: "you are too credulous, mr. wondergood. this is a great fault when one has three billions. no, i am of no use to you. our roads are far apart." "but, dear magnus!..." i expected him to strike me for this gentle _dear_, which i uttered in my best possible falsetto. but i ventured to continue. with all the sweetness i managed to accumulate in rome, i looked upon the dim physiognomy of my friend and in a still gentler falsetto, i asked: "and of what nationality are you, my _dear_...signor magnus? i suspect for some reason that you are not italian?" he replied calmly: "no, i am not italian." "but where is your country?----" "my country?... omne solum liberam libero patria. i suppose you do not know latin? it means: where freedom is there is the fatherland of every free man. will you take breakfast with me?" the invitation was couched in such icy tones and maria's absence was so strongly implied therein that i was compelled to decline it politely. the devil take this man! i was not at all in a merry mood that morning. i fervently wished to weep upon his breast while he mercilessly threw cold showers upon my noblest transports. i sighed and changed my pose. i assumed a pose prepared especially for maria. speaking in a low voice, i said: "i want to be frank with you, signor magnus. my past...contains many dark pages, which i should like to redeem. i...." he quickly interrupted me: "there are dark pages in everybody's past, mr. wondergood. i myself am not so clear of reproach as to accept the confession of such a worthy gentleman." "i am a poor spiritual father," he added with a most unpleasant laugh: "_i never pardon sinners_ and, in view of that, what pleasure could there be for you in your confession. better tell me something more about your nephew. is he young?" we spoke about my nephew--and magnus smiled. a pause ensued. then magnus asked whether i had visited the vatican gallery and i bade him good-by, requesting him to transmit my compliments to maria. i confess i was a sorry sight and felt deeply indebted to magnus when he said in bidding me farewell: "do not be angry with me, mr. wondergood. i am not altogether well to-day and...am rather worried about my affairs. that's all. i hope to be more pleasant when we meet again, but be so kind as to excuse me this morning. i shall see that maria gets your compliments." if this blackbearded fellow were only _playing_, i confess i would have found a worthy partner. a dozen pickaninnies could not have licked off the honeyed expression my face assumed at magnus' promise to transmit my greetings to maria. all the way back to my hotel i smiled idiotically at the coachman's back and afterwards bestowed a kiss on toppi's brow--the canaile still maintains an odor of fur, like a young devil. "i see there was profit in your visit," said toppi significantly. "how is magnus'...daughter? you understand?" "splendid, toppi, splendid! she said that my beauty and wisdom reminded her of solomon's!" toppi smiled condescendingly at my unsuccessful jest. the honeyed expression left my face and rust and vinegar took the place of the sugar. i locked myself in my room and for a long time continued to curse satan for falling in love with a woman. you consider yourself original, my earthly friend, when you fall in love with a woman and begin to quiver all over with the fever of love. and i do not. i can see the legions of couples, from adam and eve on; i can see their kisses and caresses; i can hear the words so cursedly monotonous, and i begin to detest my own lips daring to mumble the mumbling of others, my eyes, simulating the gaze of others, my heart, surrendering obediently to the click of the lock of a house of shame. i can see all these excited animals in their groaning and their caresses and i cry with revulsion at my own mass of bones and flesh and nerves! take care, satan in human form, deceit is coming over you! won't you take maria for yourself, my earthly friend? take her. she is yours, not mine. ah, if maria were my slave, i would put a rope around her neck and would take her, naked, to the market place: who will buy? who will pay the most for this unearthly beauty? ah, do not hurt the poor blind merchant: open wide your purses, jingle louder your gold, generous gentlemen!... what, she will not go? fear not, signor, she will come and she will love you.... this is simply her maidenly modesty, sir! shall i tie the other end of the rope about her and lead her to your bed, kind sir? take the rope along with you. i charge nothing for that. only rid me of this heavenly beauty! she has the face of the radiant madonna. she is the daughter of the honorable thomas magnus and both of them are thieves: he stole his white hands and she--her pristine face! ah.... but i am beginning to play with you, dear reader? that is a mistake: i have simply taken the wrong note book. no, it is not a mistake. it is worse. i play because my loneliness is very great, very deep--i fear it has no bottom at all! i stand on the edge of an abyss and hurl words, many heavy words, into it, but they fall without a sound. i hurl into it laughter, threats and moans. i spit into it. i fling into it heaps of stones and rocks. i throw mountains into it--and still it remains silent and empty. no, really, there is no bottom to this abyss and we toil in vain, you and i, my friend! ...but i see your smile and your cunning laugh: you _understand_ why i spoke so sourly of loneliness.... ah, 'tis love! and you want to ask whether i have a mistress? yes: there are two. one is a russian countess. the other, an italian countess. they differ only in the kind of perfume they use. but this is such an immaterial matter that i love them both equally. you probably wish to ask also whether i shall ever visit magnus again? yes, i shall go to magnus. i love him very much. it matters little that his name is false and that his daughter has the audacity to resemble the madonna. i haven't enough of wondergood in me to be particular about a name--and i am too _human_ not to forgive the efforts of others to appear _divine_. i swear by eternal salvation that the one is worthy of the other! february 21, 1914. rome, villa orsini. cardinal x., the closest friend and confidante of the pope, has paid me a visit. he was accompanied by two abbã©s. in general, he is a personage whose attentions to me have brought me no small measure of prestige. i met his eminence in the reception hall of my new palace. toppi was dancing all about the priests, snatching their blessings quicker than a lover does the kisses of his mistress. six devout hands hardly managed to handle one devil, grown pious, and before we had reached the threshold of my study, he actually contrived to touch the belly of the cardinal. what ecstasy! cardinal x. speaks all the european languages and, out of respect for the stars and stripes and my billions, he spoke english. he began the conversation by congratulating me upon the acquisition of the villa orsini and told me its history in detail for the past 200 years. this was quite unexpected, very long, at times confusing and unintelligible, so that i was compelled, like a real american ass, to blink constantly...but this gave me an opportunity to study my distinguished and eminent visitor. he is not at all old. he is broad shouldered, well built and in good health. he has a large, almost square face, an olive skin, with a bluish tinge upon his shaven cheeks, and his thin, but beautiful hands reveal his spanish blood. before he dedicated himself to god, cardinal x. was a spanish grandee and duke. but his dark eyes are too small and too deeply set beneath his thick eyebrows and the distance between the short nose and the thin lips is too long.... all this reminds me of some one. but of whom? and what is this curious habit i have of being reminded of some one? probably a saint? for a moment the cardinal was lost in thought and suddenly i recalled: yes, this is simply a shaven _monkey_! this must be its sad, boundless pensiveness, _its_ evil gleam within the narrow pupil! but in a moment the cardinal laughed, jested and gesticulated like a neapolitan lazzarone--he was no longer telling me the history of the palace. he was playing, he was interpreting it in facial expression and dramatic monologue! he has short fingers, not at all like those of a monkey, and when he gesticulates he rather resembles a penguin while his voice reminds me of a talking parrot--who are you, anyhow? no, a monkey! he is laughing again and i observe that he really does not know how to laugh. it is as if he had learned the human art of laughter but yesterday. he likes it but experiences considerable difficulty in extracting it from his throat. the sounds seem to choke him. it is impossible not to echo this strange contagious laughter. but it seems to break one's jaws and teeth and to petrify the muscles. it was really remarkable. i was fascinated when cardinal x. suddenly cut short his lecture on the villa orsini by a fit of groaning laughter which left him calm and silent. his thin fingers played with his rosary, he remained quiet and gazed at me with a mien of deepest reverence and gentle love: something akin to tears glistened in his dark eyes. i had made an impression upon him. he loved me! what was i to do? i gazed into his square, ape-like face. kindliness turned to love, love into passion, and still we maintained the silence...another moment and i would have stifled him in my embrace! "well, here you are in rome, mr. wondergood," sweetly sang the old monkey, without altering his loving gaze. "here i am in rome," i agreed obediently, continuing to gaze upon him with the same sinful passion. "and do you know, mr. wondergood, why i came here, i.e., in addition, of course, to the pleasure i anticipated in making your acquaintance?" i thought and with my gaze unchanged, replied: "for money, your eminence?" the cardinal shook, as though flapping his wings, laughed, and slapped his knee--and again lost himself in loving contemplation of my nose. this dumb reverence, to which i replied with redoubled zest, began to wield a peculiar influence upon me. i purposely tell you all this in detail in order that you may understand my wish at that moment: to begin cavorting about, to sing like a cock, to tell my best arkansas anecdote, or simply to invite his eminence to remove his regalia and play a game of poker! "your eminence...." "i love americans, mr. wondergood." "your eminence! in arkansas they tell a story...." "ah, i see, you want to get down to business? i understand your impatience. money matters should never be postponed. is that not so?" "it depends entirely upon one's concern in these matters, your eminence." the square face of the cardinal grew serious, and in his eyes there gleamed for a moment a ray of loving reproach: "i hope you are not vexed at my long dissertation, mr. wondergood. i love so much the history of our great city that i could not forego the pleasure...the things you see before you are not rome. there is no rome, mr. wondergood. once upon a time it was the eternal city, but to-day it is simply a large city and the greater it grows the further it is from eternity. where is that great spirit which once illumined it?" i shall not narrate to you all the prattle of this purple parrot, his gently-cannibal look, his grimaces and his laughter. all that the old shaven monkey told me when it finally grew weary was: "your misfortune is that you love your fellow beings too much...." "love your neighbor...." "well, let neighbors love each other. go on teaching that but why do _you_ want to do it? when one loves too well one is blind to the shortcomings of the beloved and still worse: one elevates these faults to virtues. how can you reform people and make them happy without realizing their shortcomings or by ignoring their vices? when one loves, one pities and pity is the death of power. you see, i am quite frank with you, mr. wondergood, and i repeat: love is weakness. love will get the money out of your pocket and will squander it...on rouge! leave love to the lower classes. let them love each other. demand it of them, but you, you have risen to greater heights, gifted with such power!..." "but what can i do, your eminence? i am at a loss to understand it all. from my childhood on, especially in church, i have had it drummed into me that one must love his neighbor, and i believed it. and so...." the cardinal grew pensive. like laughter, pensiveness was becoming to him and rendered his square face immovable, filling it with dignity and lonely grief. leaning forward with his lips compressed and supporting his chin upon his hand, he fixed his sharp, sleepy eyes upon me. there was much sorrow in them. he seemed to be waiting for the conclusion of my remark, and not having patience to do so, sighed and blinked. "childhood, yes"...he mumbled, still blinking sorrowfully. "children, yes. but you are no longer a child. forget this lesson. you must acquire the heavenly gift of forgetfulness, you know." he gnashed his white teeth and significantly scratched his nose with his thin finger, continuing seriously: "but it's all the same, mr. wondergood. you, yourself cannot accomplish much.... yes, yes! one must _know_ people to make them happy. isn't that your noble aim? but the church alone _knows_ people. she has been a mother and teacher for thousands of years. her _experience_ is the only one worth while, and, i may say, the only reliable one. as far as i know your career, mr. wondergood, you are an experienced cattle man. and you know, of course, what _experience_ means even in the matter of handling such simple creatures as...." "as swine...." he was startled--and suddenly began to bark, to cough, to whine: he was laughing again. "swine? that's fine, that's splendid, mr. wondergood, but do not forget that one finds the devil, too, in swine!" ceasing his laughter he proceeded: "in teaching others, we learn ourselves. i do not contend that all the methods of education and training employed by the church were equally successful. no, we often made mistakes, but every one of our mistakes served to improve our methods...we are approaching perfection, mr. wondergood, we are approaching perfection!" i hinted at the rapid growth of rationalism which, it seemed to me, threatened to destroy the "perfection" of the church, but cardinal x. again flapped his wings and almost screeched with laughter. "rationalism! you are a most talented humorist, mr. wondergood! tell me, was not the celebrated mark twain a countryman of yours? yes, yes! rationalism! just think a moment. from what root is this word derived and what does it mean--_ratio_? _an nescis, mi filis quantilla sapientia rigitur orbis?_ ah, my dear wondergood! to speak of ratio on this earth is more out of place than it would be to speak of a rope in the home of a man who has just been hanged!" i watched the old monkey enjoying himself and i enjoyed myself too. i studied this mixture of a monkey, parrot, penguin, fox, wolf--and what not? and it was really funny: i love merry suicides. for a long time we continued our fun at the expense of _ratio_ until his eminence calmed himself and assumed the tone of a teacher: "as anti-semitism is the socialism of fools...." "and are you familiar...?" "i told you we are approaching perfection!... so is rationalism the wisdom of fools. the wise man goes further. the ratio constitutes the holiday dress of a fool. it is the coat he dons in the presence of others, but he really lives, sleeps, works, loves and dies without any ratio at all. do you fear death, mr. wondergood?" i did not feel like replying and remained silent. "you need not feel ashamed, mr. wondergood: one should fear death. as long as there is _death_...." the features of the monkey's face suddenly contracted and in his eyes there appeared horror and wrath: as if some one had seized him by the back of his neck and thrust him into the darkness and terror of a primeval forest. he _feared_ death and his terror was dark, evil and boundless. i needed no words of explanation and no other evidence: one look upon this distorted, befogged and confused _human_ face was sufficient to compel reverence for the great irrational! and how weak is _their_ steadiness: my wondergood also grew pale and cringed...ah, the rogue! he was _now_ seeking protection and help from me! "will you have some wine, your eminence?" but his eminence was himself again. he curved his thin lips into a smile and shook his head in the negative. and suddenly he broke out again with surprising fury: "and as long as there is death, the church is unshakable! let all of you who seek to undermine her, tear her, and blow her up--you cannot conquer her. and even if you should succeed in destroying her, the first to perish beneath her ruins would be yourselves. who will then defend you against death? who will give you sweet faith in immortality, in eternal life, in everlasting bliss?... believe me, mr. wondergood, the world is not seeking your ratio. it is all a misunderstanding!" "but what does it seek, your eminence?" "what does it want? _mundus vult decipi_...you know our latin? the world wants to be fooled!" and the old monkey again grew merry, begun to wink, to beam with satisfaction, slapped his knee and burst into laughter. i also laughed. the rascal was so funny! "and is it you," said i, "who wants to fool it?" the cardinal again grew serious and replied sadly: "the holy see needs funds, mr. wondergood. the world, while it has not grown rational, has become weaker in its faith and it is somewhat difficult to manage it." he signed and continued: "you are not a socialist, mr. wondergood? ah, do not be ashamed. we are all socialists now. we are all on the side of the hungry: the more satisfied they will be, the more they will fear _death_. you understand?" he flung out his arms and drew them in again, like a net filled with fish and said: "we are fishermen, mr. wondergood, humble fishermen!... and tell me: do you regard the desire for _liberty_ as a virtue or a vice?" "the entire civilized world regards the desire for liberty as a virtue," i replied angrily. "i expected no other reply from a citizen of the united states. but don't you personally believe that he who will give man limitless _freedom_ will also bring him _death_? _death_ alone releases all earthly ties. and don't you regard the words 'freedom' and 'death' as synonymous?" "i speak of political liberty." "of political liberty? oh, we have no objection to that. you can have as much as you please of that! of course, provided men themselves ask for it. are you sure they really want it? if they do, please help yourself! it is all nonsense and calumny to say that the holy see is in favor of reaction.... i had the honor to be present on the balcony of the vatican when his holiness blessed the first french aã«roplane that appeared over rome, and the next pope, i am sure, will gladly bless the barricades. the time of galileo has passed, mr. wondergood, and we all know now that the earth does move!" he drew a circle in the air with his finger, indicating the revolution of the earth. i said: "you must permit me to think over your proposal, your eminence." cardinal x. jumped up from his chair and gently touched my shoulder with two of his aristocratic fingers: "oh, i am not hurrying you, my good mr. wondergood. it was you who were hurrying me. i am even convinced that you will at first refuse me, but when, after some little experience, you will have realized the real _needs_ of man.... i, too, love man, mr. wondergood, to be sure, not so passionately and...." he departed with the same grimaces, bearing himself with dignity and dispensing blessings all about him. i saw him again through the window at the entrance of the palace, while the coachman was bringing up the carriage: he was speaking into the ear of one of his abbã©s, whose face resembled a black plate. the cardinal's countenance no longer reminded me of a monkey: it was rather the face of a shaven, hungry, tired lion. this able actor needed no dressing room for his make-up! behind him stood a tall lackey, all dressed in black, reminding one of an english baronet. whenever his eminence turned about in his direction, he would respectfully lift his faded silk hat. * * * * * following the departure of his eminence i was surrounded by a merry group of friends, with whom i had filled the spare rooms of my palace for the purpose of alleviating my loneliness and ennui. toppi looked proud and happy: he was so satiated with blessings that he fairly bulged. the artists, decorators and others--whatever you call them--were greatly impressed by the cardinal's visit, and spoke with much glee of the remarkable expression of his face and the grandeur of his manner! the pope himself.... but when i remarked with the naã¯vetã© of a redskin that he reminded me of a monkey, the shrewd canailes burst into loud laughter and one of them immediately sketched a portrait of cardinal x.--in a cage. i am not a moralist to judge other people for their petty sins: they will get what is due them on their judgment day--and i was much pleased by the cleverness of the laughing beasts. they do not appear to have much faith in _love_ for one's _fellow beings_ and if i should rummage about among their drawings, i would probably find a pretty good sketch of the ass wondergood. i like that. i find relief in communion with my little, pleasant sinners, from the babbling of the great and disagreeable saints...whose hands are covered with blood. then toppi asked me: "and how much does he want?" "he wants all!" toppi said with determination: "don't you give him all. he promised to make me a prelate, but, all the same, don't you give him all. one should save his money." every day i have unpleasant experiences with toppi: people are constantly foisting counterfeit coin on him. when they first gave him some, he was greatly perturbed and was impressed with what i said to him. "you really astonish me, toppi," i said, "it is ridiculous for an old devil like you to accept counterfeit money from human beings, and allow yourself to be fooled. you ought to be ashamed of yourself, toppi. i fear you will make a beggar of me." now, however, toppi, entangled in the mesh of the counterfeit and the genuine, seeks to preserve both the one and the other: he is quite clever in money matters and the cardinal tried in vain to bribe him. toppi--a prelate!... but the shaven monkey does really want my three billions. apparently the belly of the holy see is rumbling with hunger. i gazed long at the well executed caricature of the cardinal and the longer i gazed, the less i liked it: no, there was something missing. the artist had sensed the ridiculous pretty well, but i do not see that fire of spite and malice which is in constant play beneath the gray ashes of terror. the bestial and the human is here, but it is not molded into that _extraordinary_ mask which, now that a long distance separates me from the cardinal and i no longer hear his heavy laughter, is beginning to exercise a most disagreeable influence over me. or is it because the extraordinary is inexpressible through pencil? in reality he is a cheap rascal, no better than a plain pickpocket, and told me nothing new: he is human enough and wise enough to cultivate that contemptuous laughter of his at the expense of the rational. but he revealed _himself_ to me and do not take offense at my american rudeness, dear reader: somewhere behind his broad shoulders, cringing with terror, there gleamed also your dear countenance. it was like a dream, you understand: it was as if some one were strangling you, and you, in stifled voice, cried to heaven: murder! police! ah, you do not know that _third_, which is neither life nor death, and i know _who_ it was that was strangling you with his bony fingers! but do i know? oh, laugh at him who is laughing at you, comrade. i fear your turn is coming to have some fun at my expense. do i know? i came to you from the innermost depths, merry and serene, blessed in the consciousness of my immortality.... and i am already hesitating. i am already trembling before this shaven monkey's face which dares to express its own low horror in such audaciously grand style: ah, i have not even sold my immortality: i have simply crushed it in my sleep, as does a foolish mother her newborn babe. it has simply faded beneath your sun and rains. it has become a transparent cloth without design, unfit to cover the nakedness of a respectable gentleman! this reeking wondergood swamp in which i am submerged to my eyes, envelops me with mire, befogs my consciousness and stifles me with the unbearable odors of decay. when do you usually begin to decay, my friend: on the second, the third day or does it depend upon the climate? i am already in the process of decay, and i am nauseated by the odor of my entrails. or are you so used to the work of the _worms_ that you take it for the elevation of thought and inspiration? my god, i forgot that i may have some fair readers, too! i most humbly beg your pardon, worthy folk, for this uncalled for discussion of odors. i am a most unpleasant conversationalist, milady, and as a perfumer i am worse...no, still worse: i am a disgusting mixture of satan and an american bear, and i know not how to appreciate your good taste.... no, i am still satan! i still know that i am immortal and when my will shall command me i will strangle myself with my own bony fingers. but if i _should forget_? then i shall distribute my wealth among the poor and with you, my friend, shall crawl up to the old shaven monkey. i shall cling with my american face to his soft slipper, emitting blessings. i shall weep. i shall rave with horror: "save me from death!" and the old monkey, brushing the hair from his face, reclining comfortably, gleaming with a holy light, illuminating all about it--and itself trembling with fear and horror--will hastily continue to fool the world, the world which so loves to be fooled! but i am jesting. i wish to be serious now. i like cardinal x. and i shall permit him to begild himself with my gold. i am weary. i must sleep. my bed and wondergood await me. i shall extinguish the light and in the darkness i shall listen for a moment to the clicking of the counting machine within my breast. and then will come the great pianist, a drunken genius, and begin drumming upon the black keys of my brain. he knows everything and has forgotten everything, this ingenious drunkard, and confuses the most inspiring landscapes with a swamp. that is--a dream. ii february 22. rome, villa orsini. magnus was not at home. i was received by maria. a glorious peace has suddenly descended upon me. in wondrous calm i breathe at this moment. like a schooner, its sails lowered, i doze in the midday heat of the slumbering ocean. not a stir. not a ripple. i fear to move or to open wide my eyes, dazzled by the rays of the sun. i breathe silently, and i would not rouse the slightest wave upon the boundless smoothness of the sea. and quietly i lay down my pen. february 23. villa orsini. thomas magnus was not at home and, to my great surprise, i was received by maria. i do not suppose you would be interested in how i greeted her and what i mumbled in the first few moments of our meeting. i can only say that i mumbled and that i felt a strong impulse to laugh. i could not lift my eyes to gaze upon maria until my thoughts cast off their soiled garb and donned clean attire. as you see, i did not lose consciousness altogether! but in vain did i take these precautions: _that_ torture did not follow. maria's gaze was clear and simple and it contained neither searching, penetrating fire nor fatal forgiveness. it was calm and clear, like the sky of the campagna and--i do not know how it happened--it penetrated my entire being. she met me in the garden. we sat down by the gate, from which vantage point we had a good view of the campagna. when you gaze at the campagna you cannot prattle nonsense. no, it was she who gazed at the campagna and i gazed into her eyes--clear to the seventh sky, where you end the count of your heavens. we were silent or--if you regard the following as conversation--we spoke: "are those mountains?" "yes, those are the mountains of albania. and there--is tivoli." she picked out little white houses in the distance and pointed them out to me and i felt a peculiar calm and joy in maria's gaze. the suspicious resemblance of maria to the madonna no longer troubled me: how can i possibly be troubled by the fact that you resemble _yourself_? and came a moment when a great peace of mind descended upon _me_. i have no words of comparison whereby to reveal to you that great and bright calm.... i am forever conjuring up before me that accursed schooner with its lowered sails, on which i never really sailed, for i am afraid of seasickness! or is it because on this night of my loneliness, my road is being illuminated by the _star of the seas_? well, yes, i was a schooner, if you so desire it, and if this is not agreeable to you i was _all_. besides i was _nothing_. you see what nonsense emerges out of all this talk when wondergood begins to seek words and comparisons. i was so calm that i even soon began to gaze into maria's eyes: i simply _believed_ them. this is deeper than mere gazing. when necessary i shall find those eyes again. in the meantime i shall remain a schooner with sails lowered. i shall be _all_ and i shall be _nothing_. only once did a slight breeze stir my sails, but only for a moment: that was when maria pointed out the tiberian road to me, cutting the green hills like a white thread, and asked whether i had ever traversed it before. "yes, occasionally, signorina." "i often gaze upon this road and think that it must be extremely pleasant to traverse it by automobile." "have you a swift car, signor?" "oh, yes, signorina, very swift! but those," i continued in gentle reproach, "who are themselves limitless distances and endlessness are in no need of any movement." maria and an automobile! a winged angel entering a trolley car for the sake of speed! a swallow riding on a turtle! an arrow on the humpy back of a hod carrier! ah, all comparisons lie: why speak of swallows and arrows, why speak of any movement for maria, who embraces all distances! but it is only now that i thought of the trolley and the turtle. at that time i felt so calm and peaceful, i was deep in such bliss that i could think of nothing except that countenance of eternity and undying light! a great calm came upon me on that day and nothing could disturb my endless bliss. it was not long before thomas magnus returned, and a flying fish, gleaming for a moment above the ocean, could no more disturb its blue smoothness than did magnus disturb me. i _received_ him into my heart. i swallowed him calmly and felt no heavier burden in my stomach than a whale does after swallowing a herring. it was gratifying to find magnus hospitable and merry. he pressed my hand and his eyes were bright and kind. even his face seemed less pale and not as weary as usual. i was invited to breakfast...lest it worry you, let me say right now that i remained until late in the evening. when maria had retired i told magnus of the visit of cardinal x. his merry face darkened slightly and in his eyes appeared his former hostile flame. "cardinal x.? he _came_ to see you?" i narrated to him in detail my conversation with "the shaven monkey," and remarked that he had impressed me as a scoundrel of no small caliber. magnus frowned and said sternly: "you laugh in vain, mr. wondergood. i have long known cardinal x. and...i have been keeping a close eye on him. he is evil, cruel and dangerous. despite his ridiculous exterior, he is as cunning, merciless and revengeful as satan!" and you, too, magnus! like satan! this blue-faced, shaven orang-outang, this caressing gorilla, this monkey cavorting before a looking-glass! but i have exhausted my capacity for insult. magnus' remark fell like a stone to the bottom of my bliss. i listened further: "his flirting with the socialists, his jokes at the expense of galileo are all lies. just as the enemies of cromwell hanged him after his death, so would cardinal x. burn the bones of galileo with immense satisfaction: to this day he regards the movement of the earth as a personal affront. it is an old school, mr. wondergood; he will stop at nothing to overcome obstacles, be it poison or murder, which he will take care to attribute to the misfortune of accident. you smile but i cannot discuss the vatican smilingly, not so long as it contains such...and it will always produce some one like cardinal x. look out, mr. wondergood: you have landed within the sphere of his vision and interests, and, let me assure you, that scores of eyes are now watching you...perhaps me, too. be on your guard, my friend!" magnus was quite excited. fervently i shook his hand: "ah, magnus!... but when will you agree to help me?" "but you know that i do not like human beings. it is _you_ who loves them mr. wondergood, not i." a gleam of irony appeared in his eyes. "the cardinal says that it is not at all necessary to love people in order to be happy.... the contrary, he says!" "and who told you that i want to make people happy? again, it is _you_ who wants to do that, not i. hand over your billions to cardinal x. his recipe for happiness is not worse than other patent medicines. to be sure, his recipe has one disadvantage: while dispensing _happiness_ it destroys _people_...but is that important? you are too much of a business man, mr. wondergood, and i see that you are not sufficiently familiar with the world of our inventors of the best means for the happiness of mankind: these means are more numerous than the so-called best tonics for the growth of hair. i myself was a dreamer at one time and invented one or two in my youth...but i was short on chemistry and badly singed my hair in an explosion. i am very glad i did not come across your billions in _those_ days. i am joking, mr. wondergood, but if you wish to be serious, here is my answer: keep on growing and multiplying your hogs, make four of your three billions, continue selling your conserves, provided they are not too rotten, and cease worrying about the happiness of mankind. as long as the world likes good ham it will not deny you its love and admiration!" "and how about those who have no means to buy ham?" "what do you care about them? it is their belly--pardon me for the expression--that is rumbling with hunger, not yours. i congratulate you upon your new home: i know the villa orsini very well. it is a magnificent relic of old rome." i balked at the prospect of another lecture on my palace! yes, magnus had again shoved me aside. he did it brusquely and roughly. but his voice lacked sternness and he gazed at me softly and kindly. well, what of it? to the devil with humanity, its happiness and its ham! i shall try later to bore an entrance into magnus' brain. in the meantime leave me alone with my great peace and...maria. boundless peace and...satan!--isn't that a splendid touch in my play? and what kind of a liar is he who can fool only others? to lie to oneself and believe it--that is an art! after breakfast all _three_ of us walked over the downy hills and slopes of the campagna. it was still early spring and only little white flowers gently brightened the young, green earth. a soft breeze diffused the scents of the season, while little houses gleamed in distant albano. maria walked in front of us, stopping now and then and casting her heavenly eyes upon everything they could envisage. when i return to rome i shall order my brush-pusher to paint madonna thus: on a carpet of soft green and little white flowers. magnus was so frank and merry that i again drew his attention to maria's resemblance to the madonna and told him of the miserable brush-pushers in search of a model. he laughed, agreed with me in my opinion of the aforementioned resemblance, and grew wistful. "it is a _fatal_ resemblance, mr. wondergood. you remember that heavy moment when i spoke to you of _blood_? already there is blood at the feet of maria...the blood of one noble youth whose memory maria and i cherish. there are fatal faces, there are fatal _resemblances_ which confuse our souls and lead to the abyss of self destruction. i am the father of maria, and yet i myself hardly dare to touch her brow with my lips. what insurmountable barriers does love raise for itself when it dares to lift its eyes upon maria?" this was the only moment of that happy day when my ocean became overcast with heavy clouds, as tangled as the beard of "mad king lear," while a wild wind shook the sails of my schooner. but i lifted my eyes to maria, i met her gaze. it was bright and calm, like the sky above us--and the wild wind disappeared without trace, bearing away with it fragments of the darkness. i do not know whether you understand these sea comparisons, which i consider quite inadequate. let me explain: i again grew quite calm. what is that noble roman youth to me, who himself unable to find _comparisons_ was hurled over the head of his pegasus? i am a white-winged schooner and beneath me is an entire ocean, and was it not written of her: the _incomparable_? the day was long and quiet and i was charmed with the precision with which the sun rolled down from its height to the rim of the earth, with the measured pace with which the stars covered the heavens, the large stars first, then the little ones, until the whole sky sparkled and gleamed. slowly grew the darkness. then came the rosy moon, at first somewhat rusty, then brilliant, and swam majestically over the road made free and warm by the sun. but more than anything else did i and magnus feel charmed when we sat in the half-darkened room and heard maria: she played the harp and sang. and listening to the strains of the harp i realized why man likes music produced by taut strings: i was myself a taut string and even when the finger no longer touched me, the sound continued to vibrate and died so slowly that i can still hear it in the depths of my soul. and suddenly i saw that the entire air was filled with taut and trembling strings: they extend from star to star, scatter themselves over the earth and penetrate my heart...like a network of telephone wires through a central station,--if you want more simple comparisons. and there was _something else_ i understood when i heard _maria's_ voice.... no, you are simply an animal, wondergood! when i recall your loud complaints against love and its songs, cursed with the curse of monotony--is that not your own expression?--i feel like sending you off to a barn. you are a dull and dirty animal and i am ashamed that for a whole hour i listened to your silly bellowing. you may hold words in contempt, you may curse your embraces, but do not touch love, my friend: only through love has it been given to you to obtain a glimpse into eternity! away, my friend! leave satan to himself, he who in the very blackest depths of man has suddenly come upon new and unexpected flames. away! you must not see the _joy_ and _astonishment_ of satan! the hour was late. the moon indicated midnight when i left magnus and ordered the chauffeur to drive by way of the numentinian road: i feared lest this great calm might slip away from me, and i wanted to overtake it in the depths of the campagna. but the speed of the car broke the silence and i left my machine. it went to sleep at once beneath the light of the moon over its own shadow and looked like a huge, gray stone barring the road. for the last time its lights gleamed upon me and it became transformed into something invisible. i was left alone with my shadow. we walked along the white road, i and my shadow, stopping occasionally and then again resuming our march. i sat down on a stone along the road and the black shadow hid behind my back. and here a great quiet descended upon the earth, upon the world. upon my chilled brow i felt the cool touch of the moon's kiss. march 2. rome, villa orsini. i pass my days in deep solitude. my earthly existence is beginning to trouble me. with every hour i seem to _forget_ what i have left behind the wall of _human_ things. my _eyesight_ is weakening. i can hardly see behind that wall. the shadows behind it scarcely move and i can no longer distinguish their outline. with every second my sense of _hearing_ grows duller. i hear the quiet squeak of a mouse, fussing beneath the floor but i am deaf to the thunders rolling above my head. the silence of delusion envelops me and i desperately strain my ears to catch the voices of frankness. i left them behind that impenetrable wall. with each moment _truth_ flees from me. in vain my words try to overtake it: they merely shoot by. in vain i seek to surround it in the tight embraces of my thoughts and rivet it with chains: the prison disappears like air and my embraces envelop nothing but emptiness. only yesterday it seemed to me that i had caught my prey. i imprisoned it and fastened it to the wall with a heavy chain, but when i came to view it in the morning--i found nothing but a shackled skeleton. the rusty chains dangled loosely from its neck while the skull was nodding to me in brazen laughter. you see, i am again seeking comparisons, only to have the _truth_ escape me! but what can i do when i have left all my weapons at _home_ and must resort to your poor arsenal? let god himself don this human form and he will immediately begin to speak to you in exquisite french or yiddish and he will be unable to say _more_ than it is possible to say in exquisite french or yiddish. god! and i am only satan, a modest, careless, human devil! of course, it was careless of me. but when i looked upon _your human_ life from _beyond_...no, wait: you and i have just been caught in a lie, old man! when i said from _beyond_ you understood at once it must have been very far away. yes? you may have already determined, perhaps, the approximate number of miles. have you not at your disposal a limitless number of zeros? ah, it is not true. my "_beyond_" is as close as your "_here_," and is no further away than _this_ very spot. you see what nonsense, what a lie you and i are pirouetting about! cast away your meter and your scales and only listen as if behind your back there were no ticking of a clock and in your breast there were no counting machine. and so: when i looked upon your life from _beyond_ it appeared to me a great and merry game of immortal fragments. do you know what a puppets' show is? when one doll breaks, its place is taken by another, but the play goes on. the music is not silenced, the auditors continue to applaud and it is all very interesting. does the spectator concern himself about the fate of the fragments, thrust upon the scrap heap? he simply looks on in enjoyment. so it was with me, too. i heard the beat of the drums, and watched the antics of the clowns. and i so love immortal play that i felt like becoming an actor myself. ah, i did not know then that it is not a _play_ at all. and that the scrap heap was terrible when one becomes a puppet himself and that the broken fragments reeked with blood. you deceived me, my friend! but you are astonished. you knit your brow in contempt and ask: who is this satan who does not _know_ such _simple_ things? you are accustomed to respect the devil. you listen to the commonest dog as if he were speaking ex cathedra. you have surrendered to me your last dollar as if i were a professor of white and black magic and suddenly i reveal myself an ignoramus in the most elementary matters! i understand your disappointment. i myself have grown to respect mediums and cards. i am ashamed to confess that i cannot perform a single trick or kill a bedbug by simply casting my eye upon it, but even with my finger. but what matters most to me is truth: yes, i did not know your _simplest_ things! apparently the blame for this is for that _divide_ which separates us. just as you do not know _my_ real name and cannot pronounce a simple thing like that, so i did not know _yours_, my earthly shadow, and only now, in great ecstasy do i begin to grasp the wealth that is in you. think of it: such a simple matter as counting i had to learn from wondergood. i would not even be able to button my attire if it were not for the experienced and dexterous fingers of that fine chap wondergood! now i am human, like you. the limited sensation of my being i regard as my _knowledge_ and with respect i now touch my own nose, when necessity arises: it is not merely a nose--it is an axiom! i am now myself a struggling doll in a theater of marionettes. my porcelain head moves to the right and to the left. my hands move up and down. i am merry, i am gay. i am at play. i know everything...except: whose hand it is that pulls the string behind me. and in the distance i can see the scrap heap from which protrude two little feet clad in ball slippers.... no, this is not the _play_ of the _immortal_ that i sought. it no more resembles merriment than do the convulsions of an epileptic a good negro dance! here any one is what he is and here every one seeks not to be what he is. and it is this endless process of fraud that i mistook for a merry theater: what a mistake, how silly it was of "almighty, immortal"...satan! here every one is dragging every one else to court: the living are dragging the dead, the dead--the living. the history of the former is the history of the latter. and god, too, is history! and this endless nonsense, this dirty stream of false witnesses, of perjurers, of false judges and false scoundrels i mistook for the _play_ of immortals! or have i landed in the _wrong_ place? tell me, stranger: whither does _this_ road lead? you are pale. your trembling finger points in the direction of...ah, the scrap heap! yesterday, i questioned toppi about his former life, the first time he donned the human form: i wanted to know how a doll feels when its head is cracking and the thread which moves it is severed. we lit our pipes and with steins of beer before us, like two good germans, we ventured into the realm of philosophy. it developed, however, that this numbskull has _forgotten_ everything and my questions only confused him. "is it possible that you have really forgotten everything, toppi!" "wait till you die and you will learn all about it yourself. i do not like to think of it. what good is it?" "then it is not good?" "and have you ever heard of any one praising it?" "quite true. no one has yet showered praises upon it." "and no one will, i know!" we sat silent. "and do you remember, toppi, whence you have come?" "from illinois,--the same place you come from." "no, i am speaking of _something else_. do you remember whence you came? do you recollect your real name?" toppi looked at me strangely, paled slightly and proceeded to clean his pipe. then he arose and without lifting his eyes, said: "i beg you not to speak to me _thus_, mr. wondergood. i am an honest citizen of the united states and i do not understand your insinuations." but he remembers. not in vain did he grow pale. he is seeking to forget and will forget soon enough! this double play of earth and heaven is too much for him and he has surrendered entirely to the earth! there will come a time when he will take me off to an insane asylum or betray me to cardinal x. if i dare to speak to him of satan. "i respect you, toppi. you are quite a man," i said and kissed his brow: i always kiss the brow of people i love. again i departed for the green campagna desert: i follow the best models: when i am ill at ease i go into the desert. there i called for satan and cursed his name but he would not answer me. i lay there long in the dust, pleading, when from somewhere in the depths of the desert i heard the muffled tread of feet, and a bright light helped me to arise. and again i saw the eden i had left behind, its green tents and unfading sunrise, its quiet lights upon the placid waters. and again i _heard_ the silent murmurs of lips born of immaculate conception while toward my eyes i saw approaching truth. and i stretched out my hands to her and pleaded: give me back my liberty!-"_maria!_" who called: maria? satan again departed, the lights upon the placid waters were extinguished and truth, frightened, disappeared--and again i sit upon the earth wearing my human form and gazing dully upon the painted world. and on my knees rested my shackled hands. "maria!" ...it is painful for me to admit that all this is really an invention: the coming of satan with his "light and ringing step," the gardens of eden and my shackled hands. but i needed your attention and i could not get it without these gardens of eden and these chains, the two extremes of your life. the gardens of eden--how beautiful! chains--how terrible! moreover, all this talk is much more entertaining than merely squatting on a hill, cigar in one's _free_ hand, thinking lazily and yawning while awaiting the arrival of the chauffeur. and as far as _maria_ is concerned, i brought her into the situation because from afar i could see the black cypress trees above the magnus home. an involuntary association of ideas...you understand. can a man with such sight really see satan? can a person of such dull _ear_ hear the so-called "murmurs" born of immaculate conception? nonsense! and, please, i beg of you, call me just wondergood. call me just wondergood until the day when i crack my skull open with that plaything which opens the _most narrow_ door into _limitless_ space. call me just henry wondergood, of illinois: you will find that i will respond promptly and obligingly. but if, some day, you should find my head crushed, examine carefully its _fragments_: there, in red ink will be engraved the proud name of satan! bend thy head, in reverence and bow to him--but do not do me the honor of accompanying my fragments to the scrap heap: one should never bow so respectfully to chains cast off! march 9, 1914. rome, villa orsini. last night i had an important conversation with thomas magnus. when maria had retired i began as usual to prepare to return home but magnus detained me. "why go, mr. wondergood? stay here for the night. stay here and listen to the barking of mars!" for several days dense clouds had been gathering over rome and a heavy rain had been beating down upon its walls and ruins. this morning i read in a newspaper a very portentous weather bulletin: _cielo nuvolo il vento forte e mare molto agitato._ toward evening the threat turned into a storm and the enraged sea hurled across a range of ninety miles its moist odors upon the walls of rome. and the real roman sea, the billowy campagna, sang forth with all the voices of the tempest, like the ocean, and at moments it seemed that its immovable hills, its ancient waves, long evaporated by the sun, had once more come to life and moved forward upon the city walls. mad mars, this creator of terror and tempest, flew like an arrow across its wide spaces, crushed the head of every blade of grass to the ground, sighed and panted and hurled heavy gusts of wind into the whining cypress trees. occasionally he would seize and hurl the nearest objects he could lay his hands upon: the brick roofs of the houses shook beneath his blows and their stone walls roared as if inside the very stones the imprisoned wind was gasping and seeking an escape. we listened to the storm all evening. maria was calm but magnus was visibly nervous, constantly rubbed his white hands and listened intently to the antics of the wind: to its murderous whistle, its roar and its signs, its laughter and its groans...the wild-haired artist was cunning enough to be slayer and victim, to strangle and to plead for mercy at one and the same time! if magnus had the moving ears of an animal, they would have remained immovable. his thin nose trembled, his dim eyes grew dark, as if they reflected the shadows of the clouds, his thin lips were twisted into a quick and strange smile. i, too, was quite excited: it was the first time since i became human i had heard such a storm and it raised in me a white terror: almost with the horror of a child i avoided the windows, beyond which lay the night. why does it not come here, i thought: can the window pane possibly keep it out if it should wish to break through?... some one knocked at the iron gates several times, the gates at which i and toppi once knocked for admission. "that is my chauffeur, who has come to fetch me," said i: "we must admit him." magnus glanced at me from the corner of his eye and remarked sadly: "there is no road on that side of the house. there is nothing but field there. that is mad mars who is begging for admittance." and as if he had actually heard his words, mars broke out into laughter and disappeared whistling. but the knocking was soon resumed. it seemed as if some one were tearing off the iron gates and several voices, shouting and interrupting each other, were anxiously speaking; an infant was heard weeping. "those must be people who have lost their way...you hear--an infant! we must open the gates." "well, we'll see," said magnus angrily. "i will go with you, magnus." "sit still, wondergood. this friend of mine, here, is quite enough...." he quickly drew _that_ revolver from the table drawer and with a peculiar expression of love and even gentleness he grasped it in his broad hand and carefully hid it in his pocket. he walked out and we could hear the cry that met him at the gate. on that evening i somehow avoided maria's eyes and i felt quite ill at ease when we were left alone. and suddenly i felt like sinking to the floor, and kneeling before her so that her dress might touch my face: i felt as if i had hair on my back, that sparks would at any moment begin to fly if some one were to touch it and that this would relieve me. thus, in my mind, i moved closer and closer to her, when magnus returned and silently put the revolver back into the drawer. the voices at the door had ceased and the knocking, too. "who was that?"...asked maria. magnus angrily shook off the drops of rain upon his coat. "crazy mars. who else did you expect?" "but i thought i heard you speak to him?" i jested, trying to conceal the shiver produced by the cold brought in by magnus. "yes, i told him it was not polite--to drag about with him such suspicious company. he excused himself and said he would come no more," magnus laughed and added: "i am convinced that all the murderers of rome and the campagna are to-night threatening to ambush people and hugging their stilettos as if they were their sweethearts...." again came a muffled and timid knock. "again!" cried magnus, angrily, as if mad mars had really promised to knock no more. but the knock was followed by the ring of a bell: it was my chauffeur. maria retired, while i, as i have already said, had been invited by magnus to remain overnight, to which i agreed, after some hesitation: i was not at all taken by magnus and his revolver, and still less was i attracted by the silly darkness. the kind host himself went out to dismiss the chauffeur. through the window i could see the bright lights of the lanterns of the machine and for a moment i yearned to return home to my pleasant sinners, who were probably imbibing their wine at that moment in expectation of my return.... ah, i have long since abandoned philanthropy and am now leading the life of a drunkard and a gambler. and again, as on that first night, the quiet little white house, this _soul_ of maria, looked terrible and suspicious: this revolver, these stains of _blood_ upon the white hands...and, maybe there are more stains like these here. but it was too late to change my mind. the machine had gone and magnus, by the light, had not a _blue_, but a very black and beautiful beard and his eyes were smiling pleasantly. in his broad hand he carried not a weapon, but two bottles of wine, and from afar he shouted merrily: "on a night like this there is but one thing to do, to drink wine. even mars, when i spoke to him, looked drunk to me...the rogue! your glass, mr. wondergood!" but when the glasses had been filled, this merry drunkard hardly touched the wine and sitting deep in his chair asked me to drink and to talk. without particular enthusiasm, listening to the noise of the wind and thinking about the length of the night before us, i told magnus of the new and insistent visits of cardinal x. it seemed to me that the cardinal had actually put spies on my trail and what is more strange: he has managed to gain quite an influence over the unbribable toppi. toppi is still the same devoted friend of mine but he seems to have grown sad, goes to confessional every day and is trying to persuade me to accept catholicism. magnus listened calmly to my story and with still greater reluctance i told him of the many unsuccessful efforts to open my purse: of the endless petitions, badly written, in which the truth appears to be falsehood because of the boresome monotony of tears, bows and naã¯ve flattery; of crazy inventors, of all sorts of people with hasty projects, gentlemen who seek to utilize as quickly as possible their temporary absence from jail--of all this hungry mass of humanity aroused by the smell of _weakly_ protected billions. my secretaries--there are six of them now--hardly manage to handle all this mess of tears on paper, and the madly babbling fools who fill the doors of my palace. "i fear that i will have to build me an underground exit: they are watching me even at nights. they are aiming at me with picks and shovels, as if they were in the klondike. the nonsense published by these accursed newspapers about the billions i am ready to give away to every fool displaying a wound in his leg, or an empty pocket, has driven them out of their senses. i believe that some night they will divide me into portions and eat me. they are organizing regular pilgrimages to my palace and come with huge bags. my ladies, who regard me as their property, have found for me a little dante inferno, where we take daily walks in company with the society that storms my place. yesterday we examined an old witch whose entire worth consists in the fact that she has outlived her husband, her children and her grandchildren, and is now in need of snuff. and some angry old man refused to be consoled and even would not take any money until all of us had smelled the old putrid wound in his foot. it was indeed a horrible odor. this cross old fellow is the pride of my ladies, and like all favorites, he is capricious, and temperamental. and...are you tired of listening to me, magnus. i could tell you of a whole flock of ragged fathers, hungry children, green and rotten like certain kinds of cheese, of noble geniuses who despise me like a negro, of clever drunkards with merry, red noses.... my ladies are not very keen on drunkards, but i love them better than any other kind of goods. and how do you feel about it, signor magnus?" magnus was silent. i too was tired of talking. mad mars alone continued his antics: he was now ensconced upon the roof, trying to bite a hole in the center, and crushing the tiles as he would a lump of sugar. magnus broke the silence: "the newspapers seem to have little to say about you recently. what is the matter?" "i pay the interviewers not to write anything. at first i drove them away but they began interviewing my horses and now i pay them for their silence by the line. have you a customer for my villa, magnus? i shall sell it together with the artists and the rest of its paraphernalia." we again grew silent and paced up and down the room: magnus rose first and then sat down. i followed and sat down too. in addition, i drank two more glasses of wine while magnus drank none.... his nose is never red. suddenly he said with determination: "do not drink any more wine, wondergood." "oh, very well. i want no more wine. is that all?" magnus continued to question me at long intervals. his voice was sharp and stern, while mine was...melodious, i would say. "there has been a great change in you, wondergood." "quite possible, thank you, magnus." "there used to be more life in you. now you rarely jest. you have become very morose, wondergood." "oh!" "you have even grown thin and your brow is sallow. is it true that you get drunk every night in the company of your...friends?" "it seems so." "...that you play cards, squander your gold, and that recently some one had been nearly murdered at your table?" "i fear that is true. i recollect that one gentleman actually tried to pierce another gentleman with his fork. and how do you know all about that?" he replied sternly and significantly: "toppi was here yesterday. he wanted to see...maria but i myself received him. with all due respect to you, wondergood, i must say that your secretary is unusually stupid." i acquiesced coldly. "you are quite right. you should have driven him out." i must say for my part, that my last two glasses of wine evaporated from me at the mention of _maria's_ name, and our attempted conversation was marked by continued evaporation of the wine i drank, like perfume out of a bottle. i have always regarded wine as unreliable matter. we found ourselves again listening to the storm and i remarked: "the wind seems to be growing more violent, signor magnus." "yes, the wind seems to be growing more violent, mr. wondergood. but you must admit that i warned you beforehand, mr. wondergood." "of what did you warn me beforehand, signor magnus?" he seized his knees with his white hands and directed upon me the gaze of a snake charmer.... ah, he did not know that i myself had extracted my poisoned teeth and was quite harmless, like a mummy in a museum! finally, he realized that there was no use beating about the bush, and came straight to the point: "i warned you in regard to _maria_," he said slowly, with peculiar insinuation. "you remember that i did not desire your acquaintance and expressed it plainly enough? you have not forgotten _what_ i told you about maria, of her fatal influence upon the soul? but you were bold and insistent and i yielded. and now you ask us--me and my daughter--to view the highly exhilarating spectacle of a gentleman in the process of disintegration, one who asks nothing, who reproaches no one, but can find no solace until every one has smelled his wound.... i do not want to repeat your expression, mr. wondergood. it has a bad odor. yes, sir, you have spoken quite frankly of your...neighbors and i am sincerely glad you have finally abandoned this cheap play at love and humanity.... you have so many other pastimes! i confess, however, that i am not at all overjoyed at your intention of presenting to _us_ the _sediment_ of a gentleman. it seems to me, sir, that you made a mistake in leaving america and your...canning business: dealing with people requires quite a different sort of ability." he laughed! he was almost driving me out, this little man, and i, who write my "i" in a super-capital, i listened to him humbly and meekly. it was divinely ridiculous! here is another detail for those who love the ridiculous: before his tirade began my eyes and the cigar between my teeth were quite bravely and nonchalantly directed toward the ceiling, but they changed their attitude before he had finished.... to this very moment i feel the taste of that miserable dangling, extinguished cigar. i was choking with laughter...that is i did not yet know whether to choke with laughter or with wrath. or, without choking at all, to ask him for an umbrella and leave. ah, he was at _home_, he was on his _own_ ground, this angry, black bearded man. he knew how to manage himself in this situation and he sang a _solo_, not a _duet_, like the inseparable satan of eternity and wondergood of illinois! "sir!" i said with dignity: "there seems to be a sad misunderstanding here. you see before you satan in _human form_...you understand? he went out for an evening stroll and was lost in the forest...in the forest, sir, in the forest! won't you be good enough, sir, to direct him to the nearest road to eternity? ah, ah! thank you. _so_ i thought myself. farewell!" of course, i really did not say that. i was _silent_ and gave the floor to wondergood. and this is what that respectable gentleman said, dropping his wet, dead cigar: "the devil take it! you are quite right, magnus. thank you, old man. yes, you warned me quite honestly, but i preferred to play a lone hand. now i am a bankrupt and at your mercy. i shall have no objection if you should order the removal of the _sediment_ of the gentleman." i thought that without waiting for a stretcher, magnus would simply throw the sediment out of the window, but his generosity proved quite surprising: he looked at me with pity and even stretched out his hand. "you are suffering very much, mr. wondergood?"--a question quite difficult to answer for the celebrated _duet_! i blinked and shrugged my shoulders. this appeared to satisfy magnus and for a few moments we were both silent. i do not know of what magnus was thinking. i thought of nothing: i simply examined with great interest, the walls, the ceiling, books, pictures--all the furnishings of this human habitation. i was particularly absorbed in the electric light upon which i fixed my attention: why does _it_ burn and give light? "i am waiting for your answer, mr. wondergood." so he was really expecting me to reply? very well. "it's very simple, magnus...you warned me, i admit. to-morrow toppi will pack my trunks and i shall go back to america to resume my...business." "and the cardinal?" "what cardinal? ah, yes!... cardinal x. and my billions. i remember. but--don't gaze at me in such astonishment, magnus. i am sick of it." "what are you sick of, mr. wondergood?" "_it._ six secretaries. brainless old women, snuff, and my dante inferno, where they take me for my walks. don't look at me so sternly, magnus. probably one could have made better wine out of my billions, but i managed to produce only sour beer. why did you refuse to help me? of course, you hate human beings, i forgot." "but you _love_ them?" "what shall i say, magnus? no, i am rather indifferent to them. don't look at me so...pityingly. by god, it isn't worth it! yes, i am indifferent to them. there are, there were and there will be so many of them that it isn't really worth while...." "so i am to conclude that you _lied_?" "look not at me but at my packed trunks. no, i did not lie, not entirely. you know, i wanted to do something interesting for the sake of amusement and so i let loose this...this emotion...." "so it was only _play_?..." i blinked again and shrugged my shoulders. i like this method of reply to complex questions. and _this_ face of signor thomas magnus appealed to me, too; his long, oval face recompensed me slightly for my theatrical failures and...maria. i must add that by this time there was a fresh cigar in my mouth. "you said that in your past there are some dark pages.... what's the trouble, mr. wondergood?" "oh! it was a slight exaggeration. nothing in particular, magnus. i beg your pardon for disturbing you needlessly, but at that time i thought i should have spoken thus for the sake of style...." "style?" "yes, and the laws of contrast. the present is always brighter with a dark past as a background...you understand? but i have already told you, magnus, that my prank had little result. in the place i come from they have quite a mistaken conception of the pleasures of the game here. i shall have to disabuse them when i get back. for a moment i was taken in by the old monkey, but its method of fleecing people is rather ancient and too certain...like a counting house. i prefer an element of risk." "fleecing people?" "don't we despise them, magnus? and if the game has failed, let us not at least deny ourselves the pleasure of speaking frankly. i am very glad. but i am tired of this prattle and, with your permission, i will take another glass of wine." there was not even the resemblance of a smile on thomas magnus' face. i mention the smile for the sake of...style. we passed the next half hour in silence, broken only by the shrieks and yells of mad mars and the even pacing of magnus. with his hands behind him and disregarding me entirely he paced the room with even step: eight steps forward, eight steps backward. apparently he must have been in jail at one time and for quite a while: for he had the knack of the experienced prisoner of creating distances out of a few meters. i permitted myself to yawn slightly and thus drew the attention of my host back to myself. but magnus kept quiet for another moment, until the _following words_ rang out through the air and well nigh hurled me out of my seat: "but _maria_ loves you. of course, you do not know that?" i arose. "yes, that is the truth: maria loves you. i did not expect this misfortune. i failed to kill you, mr. wondergood. i should have done that at the very beginning and now i do not know what to do with you. what do you think about it?" i stretched and... * * * * * ...maria loves _me_! i once witnessed in philadelphia an unsuccessful electrocution of a prisoner. i saw at "la scala" in milan my colleague mephisto _cringing_ and hopping all over the stage when the supers moved upon him with their crosses--and my silent reply to magnus was an artistic improvisation of both the first and the second trick: ah, at that moment i could think of nothing better to imitate! i swear by eternal salvation that never before had i been permeated by so many deadly currents, never did i drink such bitter wine, never was my soul seized with such uncontrollable _laughter_! now i no longer laugh or cringe, like a cheap actor. i am alone and only my own seriousness can hear and see me. but in that moment of triumph i needed all my strength to control my laughter so that i might not deal ringing blows to the face of this stern and honest man hurling the madonna into the embraces of...the devil. do you really think so? no? or are you merely thinking of wondergood, the american, with his goatee and wet cigar between his gold teeth! hatred and contempt, love and anguish, wrath and laughter,--these filled to the brim the cup presented to me...no, still worse, still more bitter, still more deadly! what do i care about the deceived magnus or the stupidity of his eyes and brain? but how could the pure eyes of _maria_ have been deceived? or am i really such a clever don juan that i can turn the head of an innocent and trusting girl by a few simple, silent meetings? madonna, where art thou? or, has she discovered a resemblance between myself and one of her saints, like toppi's. but i do not carry with me a traveling prayer book! madonna, where art thou? are thy lips stretching out to mine? madonna, where art thou? or?... and yet i cringed like an actor. i sought to stifle in respectful mumbling my hatred and my contempt when this new "_or_" suddenly filled me with new confusion and such love...ah, such love! "_or_," thought i, "has _thy_ immortality, madonna, echoed the immortality of satan and is it now stretching forth this gentle hand to it from the realms of eternity? thou, who art _divine_, hast thou recognized a friend in him who has become _human_? thou, who art _above_, dost thou pity him who is _below_? oh, madonna, lay thy hand upon my dark head that i may recognize thee by thy touch!..." but hear what further transpired that night. * * * * * "i know not why maria has fallen in love with you. that is a secret of her soul, too much for my understanding. no, i do not know, but i bow to her will as to her frankness. what are my human eyes before her all-penetrating gaze, mr. wondergood!..." (the latter, too, was saying the same thing.) "a moment ago, in a fit of excitement," continued magnus, "i said something about murder and death.... no, mr. wondergood, you may rest secure forever: the chosen one of maria enjoys complete immunity as far as i am concerned. he is protected by more than the law--her pure love is his armor. of course, i shall have to ask you to leave us at once. and i believe in your honest intention, wondergood, to place the ocean between us...." "but...." magnus moved forward towards me and shouted angrily: "not another word!... i cannot kill you but if you dare to mention the word 'marriage,' i!..." he slowly dropped his uplifted hand, and continued calmly: "i see that i will have to beg your pardon again for my fit of passion, but it is better than _falsehood_, examples of which we have had from you. do not defend yourself, wondergood. it is quite unnecessary. and of marriage let _me_ speak: it will ring less insulting to maria than it would from your lips. it is quite unthinkable. remember that. i am a sober realist: i see nothing but mere coincidence in _that fatal_ resemblance of maria and i am not at all taken aback by the thought that my daughter, with all her unusual qualities, may some day become a wife and mother.... my categorical opposition to this marriage was simply another means of warning you. yes, i am accustomed to look soberly upon things, mr. wondergood. it is not you who is destined to be maria's life partner! you do not know me at all and now i am compelled to raise slightly the curtain behind which i am hiding these many years: my idleness is merely rest. i am not at all a peaceful villager or a book philosopher. i am a man of struggle. i am a warrior on the battlefield of life! and my maria will be the gift only of a hero, if--if i should ever find a hero." i said: "you may rest assured, signor magnus, that i will not permit myself to utter a single word in regard to signorina maria. you know that i am not a hero. but i should think it permissible to ask of you: how am i to reconcile your present remarks with your former _contempt_ for man? i recollect that you spoke seriously of gallows and prisons." magnus laughed loudly: "and do you remember what you said about your _love_ for man? ah, my dear wondergood: i would be a bad warrior and politician if my education did not embrace the art of lying a little. we were both playing, that's all!" "you played better," i admitted quite gloomily. "and you played very badly, my friend,--do not be offended. but what am i to do when there suddenly appears before me a gentleman all loaded with gold like...." "like an ass. continue." "and begins to reveal to me his love for humanity, while his confidence in his success is equal only to the quantity of the dollars in his pocket? the main fault of your play, mr. wondergood, is that you are too eager for success and seek immediate results. this makes the spectator cold and less credulous. to be sure, i really did not think you were merely acting--the worst play is better than sincere assininity--and i must again crave your pardon: you seemed to me just one of those foolish yankees who really take their own bombastic and contemptible tirades seriously and...you understand?" "quite fully. i beg you to continue." "only one phrase of yours,--something about war and revolution purchasable with your billions--seemed to me to possess a modicum of interest, but the rest of the drivel proved that that, too, was a mere slip of the tongue, an accidental excerpt of some one else's text. your newspaper triumphs, your flippancy in serious matters--remember cardinal x!--your cheap philanthropy are of a quite different tone.... no, mr. wondergood, you are not fit for serious drama! and your prattling to-day, despite its cynicism, made a better impression than your flamboyant circus pathos. i say frankly: were it not for _maria_ i would gladly have had a good laugh at your expense, and, without the slightest compunction would have raised the farewell cup!" "just one correction, magnus: i earnestly desired that you should take part...." "in what? in your play? yes, your play lacked the _creative factor_ and you earnestly desired to saddle me with your poverty of spirit. just as you hire your artists to paint and decorate your palaces so you wanted to hire my will and my imagination, my power and my love!" "but your hatred for man...." up to this point magnus had maintained his tone of irony and subtle ridicule: my remark, however, seemed to change him entirely. he grew pale, his white hands moved convulsively over his body as if they were searching for a weapon, and his face became threatening and even horrible. as if fearing the power of his own voice, he lowered it almost to a whisper; as if fearing that his words would break their leash and run off at a wild pace, he tried desperately to hold them in check and in order. "hatred? be silent, sir. or have you no conscience at all or any common sense? my contempt! my hatred! they were my reply, not to your theatrical _love_, but to your sincere and dead indifference. you were insulting _me_ as a human being by your indifference: you were insulting life by your indifference. it was in your voice, it gleamed savagely out of your eyes, and more than once was i seized by terror...terror, sir!--when i pierced deeper the mysterious emptiness of your pupils. if your past has no dark pages, which, as you say, you merely added for the sake of style, then there is something worse than that in it: there are _white_ pages in it. and i cannot read them!..." "oh, oh!" "when i look at your eternal cigar, and see your self-satisfied but handsome and energetic face; when i view your unassuming manner, in which the simplicity of the grog shop is elevated to the heights of puritanism, i fully understand your naã¯ve game. but i need only meet the pupil of your eye...or its _white_ rim and i am immediately hurled into a void, i am seized with alarm and i no longer see either your cigar or your gold teeth and i am ready to exclaim: who are you that you dare to bear yourself with such indifference?" the situation was becoming interesting. _madonna_ loves me and this creature is about ready to utter my name at any moment! is he the son of my father? how could he unravel the great mystery of my boundless indifference: i tried so carefully to conceal it, even from you! "here! here!" shouted magnus, in great excitement, "again there are two little tears in your eyes, as i have noticed before. they are a _lie_, wondergood! there is no source of tears behind them. they have fallen from somewhere above, from the clouds, like dew. rather laugh: behind your laughter i see merely a bad man, but behind your tears there are _white_ pages, white pages!... or has maria read them?" without taking his eyes off me, as if fearing that i might run away, magnus paced the room, finally seating himself opposite me. his face grew dim and his voice seemed tired, when he said: "but it seems to me that i am exciting myself in vain...." "do not forget, magnus, that to-day i myself spoke to you of indifference." he waved his hand wearily and carelessly. "yes, you did speak. but there is something else involved here, wondergood. there is nothing insulting in the indifference, but in the other...i sensed it immediately upon your appearance with your billions. i do not know whether you will understand what i mean, but i immediately felt like shouting of hatred and to demand gallows and blood. the gallows is a gloomy thing but the curious jostling about the gallows, mr. wondergood, are quite unbearable! i do not know what they think of our game here in the 'place' you come from, but we pay for it with our lives, and when there suddenly appears before us some curious gentleman in a top hat, cigar in mouth, one feels, you understand, like seizing him by the back of his neck and...he never stays to the end of the performance, anyway. have you, too, mr. wondergood, dropped in on us for a brief visit?" with what a long sigh i uttered the name of _maria_!... and i no longer played, i no longer lied, when i replied to this gloomy man: "yes, i have dropped in on you for a brief visit, signor magnus. you have guessed right. for certain very valid reasons i can reveal nothing to you of the _white_ pages of my life, the existence of which behind my leather binding you have likewise guessed. but on one of them was written: _death-departure_. that was not a top hat in the hands of the curious visitor, but a revolver...you understand: i look on as long as it is interesting and after that i make my bow and depart. let me put it clearer and simpler, out of deference to your realism: in a few days, perhaps to-morrow, i depart for the other world.... no, that is not clear enough: in a few days or to-morrow i shall shoot myself, kill myself with a revolver. i at first planned to aim at my heart but have decided that the brain would be more reliable. i have planned all this long ago, at the very beginning...of my appearance before you, and was it not in this _readiness_ of mine to depart that you have detected 'inhuman' indifference? isn't it true that when one eye is directed upon the _other_ world, it is hardly possible to maintain any particularly bright flame in the eye directed upon _this_ world?... i refer to the kind of flame i see in your eyes. o! you have wonderful eyes, signor magnus." magnus remained silent for a few moments and then said: "and maria?" "permit me to reply. i prize signorina maria too highly not to regard her _love_ for me as a fatal mistake." "but you wanted that love?" "it is very difficult for me to answer that question. at first, perhaps--when i indulged in dreams for a while--but the more i perceived this fatal resemblance...." "that is mere resemblance," magnus hastened to assure me: "but you mustn't be a child, wondergood! maria's soul is lofty and beautiful, but she is human, made of flesh and bone. she probably has her own little sins, too...." "and how about my top hat, magnus? how about my _free_ departure? i need only buy a seat to gaze upon maria and her fatal resemblance--admitting that it is only resemblance!--but how must i pay for _love_?" magnus said sternly: "only with your life." "you see: only with my life! how, then, did you expect me to desire such love?" "but you have miscalculated: she already loves you." "oh, if the signorina maria really loves me then my _death_ can be no obstacle: however, i do not make myself clear. i wanted to say that my departure...no, i had better say nothing. in short, signor magnus: would you agree to have me place my billions at your disposal _now_?" he looked at me quickly: "now?" "yes, now, when we are no longer playing: i at love and you at hatred. now, when i am about to disappear entirely, taking with me the 'sediment' of a gentlemen? let me make it quite clear: would you like to be my heir?" magnus frowned and looked at me in anger: apparently he took my words for ridicule. but i was calm and serious. it seemed to me that his large, white hands were trembling slightly. he turned away for a moment and then, whirling about quickly, he shouted loudly: "no! again you want.... no!" he stamped his foot and cried once more: "no!" his hands were trembling. his breathing was heavy and irregular. there followed a long silence, the wailing of the tempest, the whistling and murmur of the wind. and again, great calm, great, dead, all embracing peace descended upon me. everything was turned _within_ me. i still could hear the earthly demons of the storm, but _their_ voices sounded far away and dull. i saw before me a _man_ and he was strange and cold to me, like a stone statue. one after another there floated by me all the days of my human existence. there was the gleam of faces, the weak sound of voices and curious laughter. and then, again all was silent. i turned my gaze to the other side--and there i was met by dumbness. it was as if i were immured between two dumb, stone walls: behind one was _their_ human life, which i had abandoned, and behind the other, in silence and in darkness, stretched forth the world of eternal and real being. its silence was resounding, its darkness was gleaming, eternal, joyous life beat constantly like breakers, upon the hard rocks of the impenetrable wall. but deaf was my consciousness and silent my thought. from beneath the weak legs of thought there came _memory_--and it hung suspended in the void, immovable, paralyzed for the moment. _what_ did i leave behind the wall of my unconsciousness? thought made no reply. it was motionless, empty and silent. two silences surrounded me, two darknesses enveloped me. two walls were burying me, and behind one, in the pale movement of shadows, passed their human life, while behind the other,--in silence and in darkness stretched forth the world of my real, eternal being. whence shall i hear the call? whither can i take a step? and at that moment i suddenly heard the voice of a man, strange and distant. it grew closer and closer, there was a gentle ring in it. it was magnus speaking. with great effort and concentration, i tried to catch the words and this was what i heard: "and wouldn't you rather continue living, wondergood?" march 18. rome, palazzo orsini. it is three days now that magnus and maria are living in my palazzo in rome. it is empty and silent and really seems huge. last night, worn by insomnia, i wandered about its halls and stairways, over rooms i had never seen before and their number astonished me. maria's _soul_ has expelled from it all that was frivolous and impure and only the saintly toppi moves through its emptiness, like the pendulum of a church clock. ah, how saintly he looks. if not for his broad back, the broad folds of his coat, and the odor of fur in his head, i myself would take him for one of the saints who have honored me with their acquaintance. i rarely see my guests. i am turning my entire estate into cash and magnus and toppi and all the secretaries are busy with this work from morning to night; our telegraph is constantly buzzing. magnus has little to say to me. he only talks business. maria...it seems as if i were avoiding her. i can see her through my window walking in the garden, and this is quite enough for me, for her _soul_ is here and every atom of the air is filled with her breath. and, as i have already remarked, i suffer with insomnia. as you see, my friend, i have remained among the _living_, a dead hand could not possibly write even the dead words i am not setting down. let us forget the past, as sweethearts would who have just settled their differences. let us be friends, you and i. give me your hand, my friend! i vow by eternal salvation that never again will i chase you hence or laugh at you: if i have lost the wisdom of the snake i have acquired the gentleness of the dove. i am rather sorry that i have driven away my painters and my interviewers: i have no one to inquire whom i _resemble_ with my radiant countenance? i personally feel that i remind one of a powdered darkey, who is afraid to rub the powder off with his sleeve and thus reveal his black skin...ah, i still have a black skin! yes, i have remained _alive_ but i know not yet how far i shall succeed in keeping up this state: have you any idea how hard are the transitions from a nomad to a settled life? i was a redskin, a carefree nomad, who folds up and casts off all that is human, as he would a tent. now i am laying a granite foundation for an earthly home and i, having little faith, am cold and trembling. will it be warm when the white snow covers my new home? what do you think, my friend, is the best heating system? i promised thomas magnus that night that i would not kill myself. we sealed this agreement with a warm handshake. we did not open our veins nor seal the pact with our blood. we simply said "yes" and that was quite sufficient: as you know only human beings break agreements. devils always keep them.... you need only recall your horny, hairy heroes and their spartan honesty. fortunately (let us call it 'fortunate') we had set no...date. i swear by eternal salvation, i would be a poor king and ruler if, when building a palace, i did not leave for myself a secret exit, a little door, a modest loophole through which wise kings disappear when their foolish subjects rise and break into versailles. i will not kill myself to-morrow. perhaps i shall wait quite a while. i will not kill myself: of the two walls i have chosen the lower one and i am quite human now, even as you my friend. my earthly experiment is not very thrilling as yet, but who knows?--this human life may unexpectedly grow quite attractive! has not toppi lived to grow gray and to a peaceful end? why should not i, traversing all the ages of man, like the seasons of the year, grow to be a gray old sage, a wise guide and teacher, the bearer of the covenant and arterio sclerosis? ah, this ridiculous sclerosis, these ills of old age--it is only now that they begin to seem terrible to me, but, can i not get used to them and even grow to love them? every one says it is easy to get used to life. well, i, too, will try to get used to it. everything here is so well ordered that after rain comes sunshine and dries him who is wet, if he has not been in too great a hurry to die. everything here is so well ordered that there is not a single disease for which there is no cure. this is so good! one may be ill all the time, provided there is a drug store nearby! at any rate, i have my little door, my secret exit, my narrow, wet, dark corridor, beyond which are the stars and all the breadth of my illimitable space! my friend, i want to be frank with you: there is a certain characteristic of insubordination in me, and it is that i fear. what is a cough or a catarrh of the stomach? but it is possible that i may suddenly refuse to cough, for no reason at all, or for some trivial cause, and run off! i like you at this moment. i am quite ready to conclude a long and fast alliance with you, but _something_ may suddenly gleam across your dear face which...no, it is quite impossible to do without a little secret door for him who is so capricious and insubordinate! unfortunately, i am proud, too,--an old and well known vice of satan! like a fish struck in the head, i am dazed by my human existence. a fatal unconsciousness is driving me into your life, but of one thing i am quite certain: i am of the race of the _free_. i am of the tribe of the _rulers_. i come from those who transform their will into laws. conquered kings are taken into captivity but conquered kings never become slaves. and when i shall perceive, above my head, the whip of a dirty guard and my fettered hands are helpless to avert the blow...well: shall i remain living with welts upon my back? shall i bargain with my judges about another blow of the whip? shall i kiss the hand of the executioner? or shall i send to the druggist for an eye lotion? no, let not magnus misjudge me for a little slip in our agreement: i will live only as long as i want to live. all the blessings of the human existence, which he offered me on that night, when satan was tempted by man, will not strike the weapon from my hand: in it alone is the assurance of my liberty! oh, man, what are all your kingdoms and dukedoms, your knowledge and your nobility, your gold and your freedom beside this little, free movement of the finger which, in a moment carries you up to the throne of thrones!... _maria!_ yes, i am afraid of her. the look in her eye is so clear and commanding, the light of her love is so mighty, enchanting and beautiful that i am all atremble and everything in me is quivering and urging me to immediate flight. with hitherto unknown happiness, with veiled promises, with singing dreams she tempts me! shall i cry: away!--or shall i bend mine to her will and follow her? where? i do not know. or are there other worlds beside those i know or have forgotten? whence comes this motionless light behind my back? it is growing ever broader and brighter. its warm touch heats my soul, so that its polar ice crumbles and melts. but i am afraid to look back. i may see sodom on fire and if i look i may turn into stone. or is it a new sun, which i have not yet seen upon this earth that is rising behind my back, and i, like a fool, am fleeing from it and baring my back instead of my breast to it, the low, dumb neck of a frightened animal, instead of my lofty brow? maria! will you give me my revolver? i paid ten dollars for it, together with the holster. to you i will not give it for a kingdom! only do not look at me, oh, queen...otherwise, otherwise i will give you everything: the revolver and the holster and satan himself! march 26. rome, palazzo orsini. it is the fifth night that i do not sleep. when the last light is turned out in my silent palazzo, i quietly descend the stairs, quietly order a machine--somehow or other even the noise of my own steps and voice disturb me, and i go for the night into the campagna. there, leaving the automobile on the road, i wander about until day-break or sit immovable upon some dark ruins. i cannot be seen at all and the rare passersby, perhaps some peasants from albano, converse quite loudly and without restraint. i like to remain unseen. it reminds me of something i have forgotten. once, as i sat down on a stone, i disturbed a lizzard. it may have been that it lightly moved the grass beneath my feet and disappeared. perhaps it was a snake? i do not know. but i wanted desperately to become a lizzard or a snake, concealed beneath a stone: i am troubled by my large stature, by the size of my feet and arms: they make it very difficult to become invisible. i likewise refrain from looking at my face in the mirror: it is painful to think i have a face, which all can see. why did i fear darkness so much at the beginning? it is so easy to conceal oneself in it. apparently all animals experience such subtle shame, fear and worriment and seek seclusion when they are changing their skin or hide. so, i am changing my skin? ah, it is the same, worthless prattle! the whole trouble is that i have failed to escape _maria's_ gaze and am, apparently preparing to close the last door, the door i guarded so well. but i am ashamed! i swear by eternal salvation, i feel ashamed, like a girl before the altar. i am almost blushing. blushing satan...no, quiet, quiet: _he_ is not here! quiet!... magnus told her everything. she did not reiterate that she loves me but looked at me and said: "promise _me_, you will not kill yourself." the _rest_ was in her gaze. you remember how bright it is? but do not think that i hastily agreed. like a salamander in the fire, i quickly changed colors. i shall not repeat to you all the flaming phrases i uttered: i have forgotten them. but you remember how bright and serene maria's gaze is? i kissed her hand and said humbly: "madam! i do not ask you for forty days and a desert for contemplation: the desert i will find myself and a week is quite enough for me to think the matter over. but do give me a week and...please, don't look at me any more...otherwise...." no, that wasn't what i said. i said it in other words, but it's all the same. i am now changing my skin. it hurts me. i am frightened and ashamed because any crow might see me and come to pick my flesh. what use is there in the fact that there is a revolver in my pocket? it is only when you learn to hit yourself that you can hit a crow: crows know that and consequently do not fear tragically bulging pockets. having become human and descended from above i have become but half a man. i entered upon this human existence as if into a strange element, but i have not lost myself in it entirely: i still cling with one hand to my heaven and my eyes are still above the surface. but she commands me to accept man in his entirety: only he is a _man_ who has said: never shall i kill myself, never shall i leave life of my own free will. and what about the whip? these cursed cuts upon my back? pride? oh, maria, maria, how terribly you tempt me! i look into the past of this earth and serious myriads of tragic shadows floating slowly over climes and ages! their hands stretch hopelessly into space, their bony ribs tear through the lean, thin skin, their eyes are filled with tears, and their sighs have dried up their throats. i see blood and madness, violence and falsehood, i hear their oaths, which they constantly betray, their prayers to god, in which, with every word of mercy and forgiveness, they curse their own earth. wherever i look, i see the earth smoking in convulsion; no matter in which direction i strain my ear, i hear everywhere unceasing moans: or is the womb of the earth itself filled with moaning? i see a myriad cups about me, but no matter which of them my lips may touch, i find it filled with rust and vinegar: or has man no other drink? and this is _man_? i knew _them_ before. i have seen _them_ before. but i looked upon them as augustus did from his box upon the galaxy of his victims: ave, cã¦sar! these who are about to die salute you. and i looked upon them with the eyes of an eagle and my wise, belaureled head did not disdain to take notice of their groaning cries even with so much as a nod: they came and disappeared, they marched on in endless procession--and endless was the indifference of my cã¦sar-like gaze. and now...is it really i who walks on so hastily, playing with the sand of the arena? and am i this dirty, emaciated, hungry slave who lifts his convict face into the air, yelling hoarsely into the indifferent eyes of fate: "ave, cã¦sar! ave, cã¦sar!" i feel a sharp whip upon my back and with a cry of pain i fall to the ground. is it some _master_ who is beating me? no, it is another _slave_, who has been ordered to whip a _slave_: very soon his knout will be in my hand and his back will be covered with blood and he will be chewing the sand, the sand which now grates between my teeth. oh, maria, maria, how terribly you tempt me! iii march 29 rome. buy the blackest paint available, take the largest brush you can find and, with a broad line, divide my life into yesterday and to-day. take the staff of moses and divide the stream of time and dry it up clear down to its bed--then only will you sense my _to-day_. _ave, cã¦sar, moriturus te salutat!_ april 2, rome. pallazzo orsini. i do not want to lie. there is not yet in me, oh man, any love for you, and if you have hastened to open your arms to me, please close them: the time has not yet come for passionate embraces. later, at some other date, we shall embrace, but meanwhile, let us be cold and restrained, like two gentlemen in misfortune. i cannot say that my respect for you has grown to any extent, although your life and your fate have become my life and my fate: let the facts suffice that i have voluntarily placed my neck beneath the yoke and that one and the same whip are furrowing our backs. yes, that is quite sufficient for the present. you have observed that i no longer use a super-capital in writing the word "i"?--i have thrown it out together with the revolver. this is a sign of submission and equality. you understand? like a king, i have taken the oath of allegiance to your constitution. but i shall not, like a king, betray this vow: i have preserved from my former life a respect for contracts. i swear i will be true to your comrades-at-hard-labor and will not make any attempt to escape alone! for the last few nights, before i took this decision, i thought much upon _our_ life. it is wretched. don't you think so? it is difficult and humiliating to be this little thing called man, the cunning and avaricious little worm that crawls, hastily multiplies itself and lies, turning away its head from the final blow--the worm that no matter how much it lies, will perish just the same at the appointed hour. but i will be a worm. let me, too, beget children, let the unthinking foot also crush my unthinking head at the appointed hour--i meekly accept all consequences. we are both of us humiliated, comrade, and in this alone there is some consolation: you will listen to my complaints and i--to yours. and if the matter should ultimately reach the state of litigation, why the witnesses will all be ready! that is well: when one kills in the public square there are always eyewitnesses. i will lie, if necessary. i will not lie in that free play of lying with which even prophets lie, but in that enforced manner of lying employed by the rabbit, which compels him to hide his ears, to be gray in summer and white in winter. what can one do when behind every tree a hunter with a rifle is concealed! this lying may appear to be ignoble from one point of view and may well call forth condemnation upon us, but you and i must live, my friend. let _bystanders_ accuse us to their heart's content, but, when necessary, we will lie like wolves, too! we will spring forward, suddenly, and seize the enemy by the throat: one must live, brother, one must live, and are we to be held responsible for the fact that there is such great lure and such fine taste in blood! in reality neither you nor i are proud of our lying, of our cowardice or of our cruelty, and our bloodthirstiness is certainly not a matter of conviction. but however hideous our life may be, it is still more miserable. do you agree with that? i do not love you yet, oh man, but on these nights i have been more than once on the verge of tears when i thought of your suffering, of your tortured body, and of your soul, relinquished to eternal crucifixion. it is well for a wolf to be a wolf. it is well for a rabbit to be a rabbit. but you, man, contain both god and satan--and, oh, how terrible is the imprisonment of both in that narrow and dark cell of yours! can god be a wolf, tearing throats and drinking blood! can satan be a rabbit, hiding his ears behind his humped back! no, that is intolerable. i agree with you. that fills life with eternal confusion and pain and the sorrow of the soul becomes boundless. think of it: of three children that you beget, one becomes a murderer, the other the victim and the third, the judge and executioner. and each day the murderers are murdered and still they continue to be born; and each day the murderers kill conscience and conscience kills the murderers. and all are alive: the murderers and conscience. oh, what a fog we live in! give heed to all the _words_ spoken by man from the day of his birth and you will think: this is god! look at all the _deeds_ of man from his very first day and you will exclaim in disgust: this is a beast! thus does man struggle with himself for thousands of years and the sorrow of his soul is boundless and the suffering of his mind is terrible and horrible, while the _final_ judge is slow about his coming.... but he will never come. i say this to you: we are forever alone with our life. but i accept this, too. not yet has the earth endowed me with my name and i know not who i am: cain or abel? but i accept the sacrifice as i do murder. i am everywhere with you and everywhere i follow you, man. let us weep together in the desert, knowing that no one will give heed to us...or perhaps some one will? you see: you and i are beginning to have faith in some one's ear and soon i will begin to believe in a triangular eye...it is really impossible that such a concert should have no hearer, that such a spectacle should be wasted on the desert air! i think of the fact that no one has yet beaten me, and i am afraid. what will become of my soul when some one's grubby hand strikes me on the face.... what will become of me! for i know that no earthly revenge could return my face to me. and what will then become of my soul? i swear i will become reconciled even to this. everywhere with you and after you, man. what is my face when you struck the face of your own christ and spat into his eyes? everywhere with you! and if necessary, i myself will strike at christ with the hand with which i now write: i go with you to all ends, man. they beat us and they will continue to beat us. we beat christ and will still beat him.... ah, bitter is our life, almost unbearable! only a while ago, i rejected your embraces. i said they were premature. but now i say: let us embrace more firmly, brother, let us cling closely to each other--it is so painful, so terrible to be alone in this life when all exits from it are closed. and i know not yet wherein there is more pride and liberty: in going away voluntarily, whenever one wishes, or in accepting, without resistance, the hand of the executioner? in calmly placing one's hands upon his breast, putting one foot forward and, with head proudly bent backward, to wait calmly: "do thy duty, executioner!" or: "soldiers, here's my breast: fire!" there is something plastic in this pose and it pleases me. but still more am i pleased with the fact that once again my greater ego is rising within me at the striking of this pose. of course, the executioner will not fail to do his duty and the soldiers will not lower their rifles, but the important thing is the line, the _moment_, when before my very death itself i shall suddenly find myself immortal and broader than life itself. it is strange, but with one turn of the head, with one phrase, expressed or conceived at the proper moment, i could, so to speak, halt the function of my very spirit and the entire operation would be performed outside of me. and when death shall have finally performed its rã´le of redeemer, its darkness would not eclipse the light, for the latter will have first separated itself from me and scattered into space, in order to reassemble somewhere and blaze forth again...but where? strange, strange.... i sought to escape from men--and found myself at that wall of unconsciousness known only to satan! how important, indeed, is the pose! i must make note of that. but will the pose be as convincing and will it not lose in plasticity if instead of death, the executioner and the firing squad i should be compelled to say something else...well, something like: "here's my face: strike!" i do not know why i am so concerned about my face, but it does concern me greatly. i confess, man, that it worries me very much indeed. no, a mere trifle. i will simply subdue my spirit. let them beat me! when the spirit is crushed the operation is no more painful or humiliating than it would be if i were to beat my overcoat on its hanger.... ...but i have forgotten that i am not alone and being in your company have fallen into impolite meditation. for a half hour i have been silent over this sheet of paper and it seemed all the time as if i had been talking and quite excitedly! i forgot that it is not enough to think, that one must also speak! what a shame it is, man, that for the exchange of thoughts we must resort to the service of such a poor and stealthy broker as the word--he steals all that is precious and defiles the best thoughts with the chatter of the market place. in truth, this pains me much more than death or the beating. i am terrified by the necessity of _silence_ when i come upon the _extraordinary_, which is inexpressible. like a rivulet i run and advance only as far as the ocean: in the depths of the latter is the end of my murmuring. within me, however, motionless and omnipresent, rocking to and fro, is the ocean. it only hurls noise and surf upon the earth, but its depths are dumb and motionless and quite without any purpose are the ships sailing on its surface. how shall i describe it? before i resolved to enroll myself as an earthly slave i did not speak to maria or to magnus.... why should i speak to maria when her beckoning is _clear_, like her gaze? but having become a slave i went to magnus to complain and to seek advice--apparently the human begins thus. magnus heard me in silence and, as it seemed to me, with some inner excitement. he works day and night, virtually knowing no rest, and the complicated business of the liquidation of my property is moving forward as rapidly in his hands as if he had been engaged in such work all his life. i like his heroic gestures and his contempt for details: when he cannot unravel a situation he hurls millions out of the window with the grace of a grandee. but he is weary and his eyes seem larger and darker on the background of his dim face. only now have i learned from maria that he is tortured by frequent headaches. my complaints against life, i fear, have failed to arouse any particular sympathy on his part: no matter what the accusations i brought against man and the life he leads, magnus would reply impatiently: "yes, yes, wondergood. that is what being a man means. your misfortune is that you discovered this rather late and are now quite unnecessarily aroused. when you shall have _experienced_ at least a part of that which now terrifies you, you will speak in quite a different tone. however, i am glad that you have dropped your _indifference_: you have become, much more nervous and energetic. but whence comes this immeasurable terror in your eyes? collect yourself, wondergood!" i laughed. "thank you. i am quite collected. apparently it is the _slave_, in expectation of the whip, who peers at you from within my eye. have patience, magnus. i am not quite acclimated to the situation. tell me, shall i or shall i not be compelled to commit...murder?" "quite possibly." "and can you tell me _how_ this happens?" both of us looked simultaneously at his white hands and magnus replied somewhat ironically: "no, i will not tell you that. but if you wish i will tell you something else: i will tell you what it means to accept man to the _very end_--it is this that is really worrying you, is it not?" and with much coolness and a sort of secret impatience, as if another thought were devouring his attention, he told me briefly of a certain unwilling and terrible murderer. i do not know whether he was telling me a fact or a dark tale created for my personal benefit, but this was the story: it happened long ago. a certain russian, a political exile, a man of wide education yet deeply religious, as often happens in russia, escaped from _katorga_, and after long and painful wandering over the siberian forests, he found refuge with some non-conformist sectarians. huge, wooden, fresh huts in a thick forest, surrounded by tall fences; great bearded people, large ugly dogs--something on that order. and in his very presence, soon after his arrival, there was to be performed a monstrous crime: these insane mystics, under the influence of some wild religious fanaticism, were to sacrifice an innocent _lamb_, i.e., upon a home-made altar, to the accompaniment of hymns, they were to kill a child. magnus did not relate all the painful details, limiting himself solely to the fact that it was a seven year old boy, in a new shirt, and that his young mother witnessed the ceremony. all the reasonable arguments, all the objections of the exile that they were about to perform a great sacrilege, that not the mercy of the lord awaited them but the terrible tortures of hell, proved powerless to overcome the fierce and dull stubbornness of the fanatics. he fell upon his knees, begged, wept and tried to seize the knife--at that moment the victim, stripped, was already on the table while the _mother_ was trying desperately to control her tears and cries--but he only succeeded in rousing the mad anger of the fanatics: they threatened to kill him, too.... magnus looked at me and said slowly with a peculiar calm: "and how would you have acted in that case, mr. wondergood?" "well, i would have fought until i was killed?" "yes! he did better. he offered his services and with his _own_ hand, with appropriate song, he cut the boy's throat. you are astonished? but he said: 'better for me to take this terrible sin and punishment upon myself than to surrender into the arms of hell these innocent fools.' of course, such things happen only with russians and, it seems to me, he himself was somewhat deranged. he died eventually in an insane asylum." following a period of silence, i asked: "and how would you have acted, magnus?" and with still greater coolness, he replied: "really, i do not know. it would have depended on the moment. it is quite possible i would have left those beasts, but it is also possible that i too...human madness is extremely contagious, mr. wondergood!" "do you call it only madness?" "i said: human madness. but it is you who are concerned in this, wondergood: _how_ do you like it? i am off to work. in the meantime, devote yourself to discerning the _boundary_ of the human, which you are now willing to accept in its entirety, and then tell me about it. you have not changed your intention, i hope, of remaining with _us_?" he laughed and went away, patronizingly polite. and i remained to think. and so i think: where is the boundary? i confess that i have begun to fear magnus somewhat...or is this fear one of the gifts of my complete human existence? but when he speaks to me in this fashion i become animated with a strange confusion, my eyes move timidly, my will is bent, as if too great and strange a load had been put upon it. think, man: i shake his big hand with _reverence_ and find _joy_ in his caress! this is not true of me before, but now, in every conversation, i perceive that this man can go _further_ than i in everything. i fear i _hate_ him. if i have not yet experienced love, i know not hatred either, and it will be strange indeed if i should be compelled to begin by hating the _father_ of maria!... in what a fog we do live, man! i have just merely mentioned the name of maria, her clear gaze has only touched my soul and already my hatred of magnus is extinguished (or did i only conjure it up?) and extinguished also is my fear of man and life (or did i merely invent it?) and great joy, great peace has descended upon me. it is as if i were again a white schooner on the glassy ocean; as if i held all answers in my hand and were merely too lazy to open it and read therein, as if _immortality_ had returned to me...ah, i can speak no more, oh, man! let me press your hand? april 6, 1914. the good toppi approves _all_ my actions. he amuses me greatly, this good toppi. as i expected, he has _completely_ forgotten his true origin: he regards all my reminders of our past as jests. sometimes he laughs but more often he frowns as if he were hurt, for he is religious and considers it an insult to be compared with a "horny" devil, even in jest: he himself is now convinced that devils have horns. his americanism, at first pale and weak, like a pencil sketch, has now become filled with color, and i, myself, am ready to believe all the nonsense given out by toppi as his life--it is so sincere and convincing. according to _him_, he has been in my service about fifteen years and particularly amusing it is to hear his stories of his youth. apparently he, too, has been touched by the charms of _maria_: my decision to surrender all my money to her father astonished him much less than i expected. he merely chewed his cigar for a moment and asked: "and what will he do with your money?" "i do not know, toppi." he raised his brow and frowned: "you are joking, mr. wondergood?" "you see, toppi: just now we, i.e., magnus is occupied in converting my estate into gold and jamming it into banks, in his name, of course. you understand?" "how can i fail to understand, mr. wondergood?" "these are all preliminary, essential steps. what may happen further...i do not know yet." "oh, you are jesting again?" "you must remember, old man, that i myself did not know what to do with my money. it is not money that i need but new activity. you understand? but magnus _knows_. i do not know yet what his plans are but it is what magnus said that is important to me: 'i will compel you to work, wondergood!' oh, magnus is a great man. you will see that for yourself, toppi!" toppi frowned again and replied: "you are master of your money, mr. wondergood." "ah, you have forgotten everything, toppi! don't you remember about that _play_? that i wanted to play?" "yes, you did say something about it. but i thought you were joking." "no, i was not joking. i was only mistaken. they do play here but this is not a theater. it is a gambling house and so i gave all my money to magnus: let him break the bank. you understand? he is the banker, he will manage the game and i shall simply do the betting.... quite a life, eh?" apparently the old fool understood nothing. he kept raising and lowering his eyebrows and again inquired: "and how soon may we expect your betrothal to signorina maria?" "i do not know yet, toppi. but that is not the thing. i see you are dissatisfied. you do not trust magnus?" "oh, signor magnus is a worthy man. but one thing i do fear, mr. wondergood, if you will permit me to be frank: he is a man who does not believe. this seems strange to me: how can the father of signorina maria be a non-believer? is that not so? permit me to ask: do you intend to give anything to his eminence?" "that depends now on magnus." "oh! on signor magnus? so, so. and do you know that his eminence has already been to see signor magnus? he was here a few days ago and spent several hours in this study. you were not at home at that time." "no, i do not know. we have not spoken about that, but have no fear: we will find _something_ for the cardinal. confess, old man: you are quite enchanted with that old monkey?" toppi glanced at me sharply and sighed. then he lapsed into thought...and strange as it may seem--something akin to a monkey appeared in his countenance, as in the cardinal's. later, from somewhere deep within him, there appeared a smile. it illumined his hanging nose, rose to his eyes and blazed forth within them in two bright, little flames, not devoid of wanton malice. i looked at him in astonishment and even with joy: yes that was my old toppi, risen from his human grave.... i am convinced that his hair again has the smell of fur instead of oil! gently i kissed his brow--old habits cannot be rooted out--and exclaimed: "you are enchanting, toppi! but _what_ was it that gave you such joy?" "i waited to see whether he would show maria to the cardinal?" "well?" "he did not!" "well?" but toppi remained silent. and as it had come so did the smile disappear, slowly: at first the hanging nose grew pale and became quite indistinct, then all at once the flames within his eyes went out--and again the old dejection, sourness and odor of church hypocrisy buried him who had been resurrected for a moment. it would have been useless to trouble the ashes with further questions. this happened yesterday. a warm rain fell during the day but it cleared up towards evening and magnus, weary and apparently suffering with headache, suggested that we take a ride into the campagna. we left our chauffeur behind, a practice peculiar to all our intimate trips. his duties were performed by magnus, with extraordinary skill and daring. on this occasion, his usual daring reached the point of audacity: despite the ever-thickening twilight and the muddy road, magnus drove the automobile at such mad speed that more than once did i look up at his broad, motionless back. but that was only at first: the presence of maria, whom i supported with my arm (i do not dare say embraced!) soon brought me to the loss of all my senses. i cannot describe it all to you--so that you would really feel it--the aromatic air of the campagna, which caressed my face, the magnificence and charm of our arrow-like speed, my virtual loss of all sensation of material weight, of the complete disappearance of _body_, when i felt myself a speeding thought, a flying gaze.... but still less can i tell you of _maria_. her madonna gaze whitened in the twilight, like marble; like the mysterious silence and perfect beauty of marble was her gentle, sweet and wise silence. i barely touched her slender, supple figure, but if i had been embracing within the hollow of my hand the entire firmness of earth and sky i could not have felt a more complete mastery of the _whole world_! do you know what a line is in measurement? not much,--is that not so? and it was only by the measure of a line that maria bent her divine form to me--no, no more than that! but what would you say, man, if the _sun_, coming down from its course just one line were to come closer to you by that distance? would you not consider it a _miracle_? my existence seemed unbounded, like the universe, which knows neither your time nor distance. for a moment there gleamed before me the wall of my unconsciousness, that unconquerable barrier against which the spirit of him who has donned the human form beats in vain,--and as quickly did it disappear: it was swallowed, without sound or conflict, by the waves of my new sea. even higher they rose, enshrouding the world. there was no longer anything to remember for me or to know: my new human soul remembered all and commanded all. i am a man! what gave me the idea that i hate magnus? i looked at this motionless, erect and firm human back and thought that behind it a heart was beating. i thought of how painful and terrible it was for it to remain firm and erect and of how much pain and suffering had already fallen to the lot of this human creature, no matter how proud it might appear or dejected. and suddenly i realized to the extent of pain and tears, how much i loved magnus, this very same magnus! he speeds so wildly and has no fear! and the very moment i sensed this, maria's eyes turned upon me.... ah, they are as bright at night as they are by day! but at that moment there was a troubled look within them. they were asking: why these tears? what could i say in reply with the aid of weak words! i silently took maria's hand and pressed it to my lips. and without taking her gaze off me, shining in cold, marble luster, she quietly withdrew her hand--and i became confused--and again gave it to me, taking off her glove. will you permit me to discontinue, man? i do not know who you are, you who are reading these lines, and i rather fear you...your swift and daring imagination. moreover, a gentleman feels ill at ease in speaking of his success with the ladies. besides, it was time to return: on the hills the lights of tivoli were already gleaming and magnus reduced his speed. we were moving quite slowly on the return trip and magnus, grown merry, wiping his brow with his handkerchief, now and then addressed brief remarks to us. there is one thing i will not conceal: her unquestionable womanliness emphasizes the completeness of my transformation. as we walked up the broad stairs of my palazzo, amid its princely wealth and beauty, i suddenly thought: "why not send all this adventure to the devil? why not simply wed and live like a prince in this palace? there will be freedom, children, laughter, just earthly happiness and love." and again i looked at magnus. he seemed strange to me: "i will take your money!" then i saw the stern gaze of my maria--and the contradiction between her love and this plan of simple, modest happiness was so great and emphatic that my thought did not even require an answer. i now recollect this thought accidentally as a curiosity of "toppism." let me call it "toppism" in honor of my perfect toppi. the evening was charming. at magnus' request, maria sang. you cannot imagine the reverence with which toppi listened to her singing! he dared not utter a word to maria, but on leaving he shook my hand long and with particular warmth. then, similarly, he shook the hand of magnus. i also rose to retire. "do you intend to do some work yet, magnus?" "no. don't you want to go to sleep, wondergood? come to my room. we'll chat a bit. incidentally, there is a paper for you to sign. do you want any wine?" "oh, with pleasure, magnus. i love conversation at night." we drank the wine. magnus, whistling something out of tune, silently walked the carpet, while i, as usual, reclined in a chair. the palazzo was all silence, like a sarcophagus, and this reminded me of that stirring night when mad mars raved behind the wall. suddenly, magnus exclaimed loudly, without hesitation: "the affair is progressing splendidly." "so?" "in two weeks everything will be completed. your swollen, scattered wealth, in which one can be lost as in a wood, will be transformed into a clear, concise and exact sack of gold...to be more correct--into a mountain. do you know the exact estimate of your money, wondergood?" "oh, don't, magnus. i don't want to know it. moreover, it's your money." magnus looked at me quickly and said sharply: "no, it's yours." i shrugged my shoulders. i did not want to argue. it was so quiet and i so enjoyed watching this strong man silently pacing to and fro. i still remembered his motionless, stern back, behind which i could clearly see his heart. he continued, after a pause: "do you know, wondergood, that the cardinal has been here?" "the old monkey? yes, i know. what did he want?" "the same thing. he wanted to see you but i did not feel like taking you away from your thoughts." "thanks. did you drive him out?" magnus replied angrily: "i am sorry to say,--no. don't put on airs, wondergood: i have already told you that we must be careful of him as long as we remain here. but you are quite right. he is an old, shaven, useless, evil, gluttonous, cowardly monkey!" "ah, ah! then why not show him the door?" "impossible." "i believe you, magnus. and what does this king i hear about want, he who is to visit us some of these days?" "ex-king. probably the same thing. you should receive him yourself, of course." "but only in your presence. otherwise i refuse. you must understand, my friend, that from that memorable night on i have been merely your disciple. you find it impossible to drive out the old monkey? very well, let him remain. you say we must receive some ex-king? very well, receive him. but i would rather be hanged on the first lamppost than to do so without knowing your reason." "you are jesting again, wondergood." "no, i am _quite_ serious, magnus. but i swear by eternal salvation that i know not what we are doing or intend to do. i am not reproaching you. i am not even questioning you: as i have already told you, i trust you and am ready to follow your directions. that you may not again reproach me with levity and impracticability, i may add a little business detail: maria and her love are my hostages. moreover, i do not yet know to what you intend to devote your energy, of whose boundlessness i am becoming more convinced each day; what plans and ends your experience and mind have set before you. but of one thing i have no doubt: they will be huge plans, great objects. and i, too, shall always find something to do beside you...at any rate this will be much better than my brainless old women and six secretaries. why do you refuse to believe in my modesty, as i believe in your...genius. imagine that i am come from some other planet, from mars, for instance, and wish in the most serious manner possible, to pass through the experience of a _man_.... it is all very simple, magnus!" magnus frowned at me for a few moments and suddenly broke into laughter: "you certainly are a pilgrim from some other planet, wondergood!... and what if i should devote your gold to doing evil?" "why? is that so very interesting?" "hm!... you think _that is_ not interesting?" "yes, and so do you. you are too big a man to do little evil, just as billions constitute too much money, while honestly as far as great evil is concerned, i know not yet what _great evil_ is? perhaps it is really _great good_? in my recent contemplations, there...came to me a strange thought: who is of greater _use_ to man--he who hates or he who loves him? you see, magnus, how ignorant i still am of human affairs and...how ready i am for almost anything." without laughter and, with what seemed to me, extreme curiosity, magnus measured me with his eyes, as if he were deciding the question: is this a fool i see before me, or the foremost sage of america? judging by his subsequent question he was nearer the second opinion: "so, if i have correctly understood your words, you are afraid of _nothing_, mr. wondergood?" "i think _not_." "and murder...many murders?" "you remember the point you made in your story about the boy of the _boundary_ of the human? in order that there may be no mistake, i have moved it forward several kilometers. will that be enough?" something like respect arose in magnus' eyes...the devil take him, though, he really considers me a clod! continuing to pace the room, he looked at me curiously several times, as if he were trying to recall and verify my remark. then, with a quick movement, he touched my shoulders: "you have an active mind, wondergood. it is a pity i did not come to know you before." "why?" "just so. i am interested to know how you will speak to the king: he will probably suggest something very evil to you. and great evil is great good. is that not so?" he again broke into laughter and shook his head in a friendly fashion. "i don't think so. the chances are he will propose something very silly." "hm!... and is that not great wisdom?" he laughed again but frowned suddenly and added seriously: "do not feel hurt, wondergood. i liked what you said very much and it is well you do not put any questions to me at this time: i could not answer them just now. but there is something i can say even now...in general terms, of course. are you listening?" "i am all attention." magnus seated himself opposite me and, taking a sip of wine, asked with strange seriousness: "how do you regard explosives?" "with great respect." "yes? that is cold praise, but, i dare say, they don't deserve much more. yet, there was a time when i worshiped dynamite as i do frankness...this scar on my brow is the result of my youthful enthusiasm. since then i have made great strides in chemistry--and other things--and this has cooled my zeal. the drawback of every explosive, beginning with powder, is that the explosion is confined to a limited space and strikes only the things near at hand: it might do for war, of course, but it is quite inadequate where bigger things are concerned. besides, being a thing of material limitations, dynamite or powder demands a constantly guiding hand: in itself, it is dumb, blind and deaf, like a mole. to be sure, in whitehead's mine we find an attempt to create consciousness, giving the shell the power to correct, so to speak, certain mistakes and to maintain a certain aim, but that is only a pitiful parody on eyesight...." "and you want your 'dynamite' to have consciousness, will and eyes?" "you are right. that is what i want. and my new _dynamite_ does have these attributes: will, consciousness, eyes." "and what is your aim? but this sounds...terrible." magnus smiled faintly. "terrible? i fear your terror will turn to laughter when i give you the name of my dynamite. it is _man_. have you never looked at man from this point of view, wondergood?" "i confess,--no. does dynamite, too, belong to the domain of psychology? this is all very ridiculous." "chemistry, psychology!" cried magnus, angrily: "that is all because knowledge has been subdivided into so many different subjects, just as a hand with ten fingers is now a rarity. you and your toppi--all of us are explosive shells, some loaded and ready, others still to be loaded. and the crux of the matter lies, you understand, in how to load the shell and, what is still more important: how to explode it. you know, of course, that the method of exploding various preparations depends upon their respective compositions?" i am not going to repeat here the lecture on explosives given me by magnus with great zeal and enthusiasm: it was the first time i had seen him in such a state of excitement. despite the absorbing interest of the subject, as my friends the journalists would say, i heard only half the things he was saying and concentrated most of my attention on his skull, the skull which contained such wide and dangerous knowledge. whether it was due to the conviction carried in magnus' words, or to pure weariness--i know not which--this round skull, blazing with the flames of his eyes, gradually assumed the character of a real, explosive shell, of a bomb, with the fuse lit for action.... i trembled when magnus carelessly threw upon the table a heavy object resembling a cake of grayish-yellow soap, and exclaimed involuntarily: "what's that?" "it looks like soap or wax. but it has the force of a devil. one half of this would be enough to blow st. peter's into bits. it is a capricious devil. you may kick it about or chop it into pieces, you may burn it in your stove, it will remain ever silent: a dynamite shell may tear it apart yet it will not rouse its wrath. i may throw it into the street, beneath the hoofs of horses; the dogs may bite at it and children may play with it--and still it remains indifferent. but i need only apply a current of high pressure to it--and the force of the explosion will be monstrous, limitless. a strong but silly devil!" with equal carelessness, bordering almost upon contempt, magnus threw his devil back into the table drawer and looked at me sternly. my eyebrows twitched slightly: "i see you know your subject to perfection, and i rather like this capricious devil of yours. but i would like to hear you discuss _man_." magnus laughed: "and was it not of him i have just spoken? is not the history of this piece of soap the history of your _man_, who can be beaten, burned, hacked to bits, hurled beneath the hoofs of horses, thrown to the dogs, torn into shreds--without rousing his consuming wrath or even his anger? but prick him with _something_--and the explosion will be terrible...as you will learn, mr. wondergood." he laughed again and rubbed his white hands with pleasure: he scarcely remembered at that moment that human blood was already upon them. and is it really necessary for _man_ to remember that? after a pause commensurate with the respect due to the subject, i asked: "and do you know how to make a _man_ explode?" "certainly." "and would you consider it permissible to give me this information?" "unfortunately it is not so easy or convenient because the current of high pressure would require too much elucidation, dear wondergood." "can't you put it briefly?" "oh, briefly. well, it is necessary to promise man some _miracle_." "is that all?" "that is all." "lies once more? the old monkey?" "yes, lies again. but not the old monkey. it is not that i have in mind. neither crusades nor immortality in heaven. this is the period of other miracles and other wonders. he promised resurrection to the dead. i promise resurrection to the living. his followers were the dead. mine...ours--are the living." "but the dead _did not arise_. how about the living?" "who _knows_? _we must make an experiment._ i cannot yet confide in you the business end of the enterprise but i warn you: the experiment must be conducted on a very large scale. you are not afraid, mr. wondergood?" i shrugged my shoulders indicating nothing definite. what could i answer? this gentleman carrying upon his shoulders a bomb instead of a head again split me into two halves, of which _man_, alas, was the lesser one. as wondergood, i confess without shame, i felt cruel fear and even pain: just as if the monstrous explosion had already touched my bones and were now breaking them...ah, but where is my endless happiness with maria, where the boundless peace of mind, where the devil is that white schooner? no, as great immortal curiosity, as the genius of _play_ and eternal movement, as the rapacious gaze of unclosing eyes i felt--i confess this, too, without shame--great joy, bordering upon ecstasy! and with a shiver of delight i mumbled: "what a pity i did not know that before." "why a pity?" "oh, just so. do not forget that i am come from another planet and am only now getting acquainted with man. so what shall we do with this--planet--magnus?" he laughed again: "you are a strange fellow, wondergood! with this planet? we will give it a little holiday. but enough jesting. i do not like it!" he frowned angrily and looked at me sternly, like an old professor...the manner of this gentleman was not distinguished by flippancy. when it seemed to him that i had grown sufficiently serious he shook his head in approval and asked: "do you know, wondergood, that the whole of europe is now in a very uneasy state?" "war?" "possibly war. everybody is secretly expecting it. _but_ war precedes the belief in the kingdom of _miracles_. you understand: we have lived too long in simple faith in the multiplication table, _we_ are tired of the multiplication table, _we_ are filled with ennui and anxiety on this straight road whose mire is lost in infinity. just now all of us are demanding some miracle and soon the day will come when we will demand the miracle immediately! it is not i alone who wants _an experiment on a large scale_--the whole world is preparing it...ah, wondergood, in truth, life would not be worth the candle if it were not for these highly interesting moments! highly interesting!" he greedily rubbed his hands. "you are pleased?" "as a chemist, i am in ecstasy. my shells are already loaded, without being themselves conscious of the fact, but they will know it well enough when i apply the torch. can you imagine the sight when _my_ dynamite will begin to explode, its consciousness, its will, its eyes directed straight upon its goal?" "and blood? perhaps my reminder is out of place but i remember an occasion when you spoke of _blood_ with much excitement." magnus fixed his long gaze upon me: something akin to suffering appeared in his eyes: but this was not the prick of conscience or pity--it was the emotion of a mature and wise man whose thoughts had been interrupted by the foolish question of a child: "blood," he said, "what blood?" i recalled to him his words on that occasion and told him of my strange and extremely unpleasant dream about the bottles, filled with blood instead of wine, and so easily broken. weary, with his eyes closed, he listened to my tale and sighed heavily. "blood!"--he murmured: "blood! that's nonsense. i told you many trite things on that occasion, wondergood, and it is not worth while to recall them. however, if _this_ gives you fear, it is not too late." i replied resolutely: "i fear _nothing_. as i have already said, i shall follow you everywhere. it is _my_ blood that is protesting--you understand?--not my consciousness or will. apparently i shall be the first to be fooled by you: i, too, seek a miracle. is not your _maria_ a miracle? i have been repeating the multiplication table night and day and i have grown to hate it like the bars of a prison. from the point of view of your chemistry, i am quite loaded and i ask but one thing: blow me up as quickly as possible!" magnus agreed sternly: "very well. in about two weeks. are you satisfied?" "thank you. i hope that signorina maria will then become my wife?" magnus laughed. "madonna?" "oh, i don't understand your smile...and, i must say, my hope is altogether in conformity with the regard i bear for your daughter, signor magnus." "don't excite yourself, wondergood. my smile was not about maria but about your faith in miracles. you are a splendid fellow, wondergood. i am beginning to love you like a son. in two weeks you will receive everything and then we shall conclude a new and strong pact. your hand, comrade!" for the first time he shook my hand in a strong, comradely fashion. i would have kissed him if there had been a simple human head instead of a bomb upon his shoulders. but to touch a bomb! not even in the face of my utmost respect for him! that was the first night that i slept like one slain and the stone walls of the palace did not press upon me. the walls were brushed by the explosive power of magnus' speech, while the roof melted away beneath the starry coverlet of maria: my soul departed into the realms of her calm love and refuge. the mountain tivoli and its fires--that was what i saw as i fell into slumber. april 8, rome. before knocking at my door, his majesty, the ex-king e. had knocked at no small number of entrances in europe. true to the example of his apostolic ancestors, who believed in the gold of israel, he particularly liked to approach jewish bankers; i believe that the honor done me by his visit was based upon his firm conviction that i was a jew. although his majesty was visiting rome incognito, i, warned of his visit, met him at the foot of the stairs and bowed low to him--i think that is the requirement of etiquette. then, also in accordance with etiquette, we introduced ourselves, he--his adjutant, i--thomas magnus. i confess i had not a very flattering opinion of the former king and that is why he astonished me all the more with his high opinion of himself. he gave me his hand politely but with such haughty indifference, he looked at me with such complete self-confidence, as if he were gazing at a being of a lower order, he walked ahead of me so naturally, sat down without invitation, gazed upon the walls and furniture in such frankly royal manner, that my entire uneasiness due to my unfamiliarity with etiquette disappeared immediately. it was only necessary to follow this fellow, who appeared to know everything so well. in appearance he was quite a young man, with fresh complexion and magnificent coiffure, somewhat worn out but sufficiently well-preserved, with colorless eyes and a calm, brazenly protruding lower lip. his hands were beautiful. he did not try to conceal that he was bored by my american face, which appeared jewish to him, and by the necessity of asking me for money: he yawned slightly after seating himself and said: "sit down, gentlemen." and with a slight command of the hand he ordered the adjutant to state the nature of his proposal. he paid no attention to magnus at all, and while the fat, red and obliging adjutant was stealthily narrating the story of the "misunderstanding" which caused the departure of his majesty from his country--his majesty was nonchalantly examining his feet. finally, he interrupted his representative's speech with the impatient remark: "briefer, marquis. mr.... wondergood is as well familiar with this history as we are. in a word, these fools kicked me out. how do you regard it, dear wondergood?" "how do i regard it?" i bowed low: "i am glad to be of service to your majesty." "well, yes, that's what they all say. but will you give me any money? continue, marquis." the marquis, smiling gently at me and magnus (despite his obesity he looked quite hungry) continued to weave his thin flimsy web about the misunderstanding, until the bored king again interrupted him: "you understand: these fools thought that i was responsible for all their misfortunes. wasn't that silly, mr. wondergood? and now they are worse off than ever and they write: 'come back, for god's sake. we are perishing!' read the letters, marquis." at first the king spoke with a trace of excitement but apparently any effort soon wearied him. the marquis obediently took a packet of papers from the portfolio and tortured us with the complaints of the orphaned subjects, begging their lord to return. i looked at the king: he was no less bored than we were. it was so clear to him that the people could not exist without him that all confirmations of this seemed superfluous.... and i felt so strange: whence does this miserable man get so much happy confidence? there was no doubt that this bird, unable to find a crumb for himself, sincerely believed in the peculiar qualities of his personage, capable of bestowing upon a whole people marvelous benefactions. stupidity? training? habit? at that moment the marquis was reading the plea of some correspondent, in which, through the web of official mediocrity and the lies of swollen phrases, gleamed the very same confidence and sincere call. was that, too, stupidity and habit? "and so forth, and so forth," interrupted the king listlessly: "that will do, marquis, you may close your portfolio. well, what you think of it, dear mr. wondergood?" "i will be bold enough to say to your majesty that i am a representative of an old, democratic republic and...." "stop, wondergood! republic, democracy! that's nonsense. you know well enough yourself that a king is a necessity. you, in america, will have a king, too, some day. how can you get along without a king: who will be responsible for them before god? no, that's foolish." this creature was actually getting ready to answer for the people before god! and he continued with the same calm audacity: "the king can do everything. and what can a president do? nothing. do you understand, wondergood--_nothing!_ why, then, do you want a president who can do nothing?"--he deigned to twist his lower lip into a sarcastic smile.--"it is all nonsense, invented by the newspapers. would you, for example, take your president seriously, mr. wondergood?" "but representative government...." "fi! excuse me, mr. wondergood (he recalled my name with great difficulty) but what fool will pay any attention to the representatives of the people? citizen a will pay heed to citizen b and citizen b will pay heed to citizen a--is that not so? but who will compel their obedience if both of them are wise? no, i, too, have studied logic, mr. wondergood and you will permit me to indulge in a laugh!" he laughed slightly and said with his usual gesture: "continue, marquis.... no, let me do it. the king can do _everything_, wondergood, you understand?" "but the law...." "ah, this fellow, too, speaks of law. do you hear, marquis? no, i really can't understand what you want this law for! that all may suffer equitably! however, if you are so keen on having law, law you shall have. but who will give it to you, if not i?" "but the representatives of the people...." the king directed his colorless eyes upon me, almost in despair: "ah, again citizen a and b! but can't you understand, dear wondergood? what kind of a law is it if they themselves make it? what wise man will agree to obey it? no, that's nonsense. is it possible that you yourself obey this law, wondergood?" "not only i, your majesty, but the whole of america...." his eyes measured me with sympathy. "pardon me, but i don't believe it. the whole of america! well, in that case they simply don't understand what law is--do you hear, marquis, the whole of america! but that's not the thing. i must return, wondergood. you've heard what the poor devils write?" "i am happy to see that the road is open for you, my lord." "open? you think so? hm! no, i need money. some write and others don't, you understand?" "perhaps they don't know how to write, my lord?" "they? oh! you should have seen what they wrote against me. i was quite flustered. what they need is the firing squad." "all of them?" "why all of them? some of them will be enough. the rest of them will simply be scared to death. you understand, wondergood, they have simply stolen my power from me and now, of course, will simply refuse to return it. you can't expect me to see to it that no one robs me. and these gentlemen,"--he indicated the blushing marquis--"to my sorrow did not manage to guard my interests." the marquis mumbled confusedly: "sire!" "now, now, i know your devotion, but you were asleep at the switch just the same? and now there is so much trouble, so much trouble!"--he sighed lightly. "did not cardinal x. tell you i needed money, mr. wondergood? he promised to. of course i will return it all and...however, you should take this matter up with the marquis. i have heard that you love people very much, mr. wondergood?" a faint smile flitted over the dim face of magnus. i bowed slightly. "the cardinal told me so. that is very praiseworthy, mr. wondergood. but if you do love people you will certainly give me money. i don't doubt that in the least. they must have a king. the newspapers are merely prattling nonsense. why do they have a king in germany, a king in england, a king in italy, and a hundred other kings? and don't we need a king too?" the adjutant mumbled: "a misunderstanding...." "of course a misunderstanding. the marquis is quite right. the newspapers call it a revolution, but believe me, i know my people; it is simply a misunderstanding. they are now weeping themselves. how can they get along without a king? there would be no kings at all then. you understand? what nonsense! they now talk of no god, too. no, we must do a little shooting, a little shooting!" he rose quickly and this time shook my hand with a patronizing smile and bowed to magnus. "good-by, good-by, my dear wondergood. you have a magnificent figure.... oh, what a splendid fellow! the marquis will drop in to see you one of these days. there was something more i wanted to say. oh, yes: i hope that you in america will have a king, too, in the near future...that is very essential, my friend. moreover, that's bound to be the end! au revoir!" we escorted his majesty with the same ceremony. the marquis followed and his bowed head, divided into two halves by the part in his reddish hair, and his red face bore the expression of hunger and constant failure.... ah, he has so frequently and so fruitlessly orated about that 'misunderstanding'! the king, apparently, also recalled at that moment his vain knocking about at other thresholds: his bloodless face again filled with grayish ennui and in reply to my parting bow, he opened wide his eyes, as if in astonishment, with the expression: what more does this fool want? ah, yes, he has money. and lazily he asked: "and so, you'll not forget, mr....friend!" and his automobile was magnificent and just as magnificent was the huge chauffeur, resembling a gendarme, attired for the new rã´le. when we had reascended the stairs (our respectful lackeys meanwhile gazing upon me as on a royal personage) and entered our apartments, magnus fell into a long, ironic silence. i asked: "how old is this creature?" "didn't you know, wondergood? that's bad. he is 32 years old. perhaps less." "did the cardinal really speak of him and ask you to give him money?" "yes,--from what you may have left after the cardinal's wants are attended to." "that is probably due to the fact that the monarchist form of government is also in vogue in heaven. can you conceive of a republic of saints and the administration of the world on the basis of popular representation? think of it: even devils will then receive the vote. a king is most necessary, wondergood. believe me." "nonsense! this is not worthy even of a jest." "i am not jesting. you are mistaken. and pardon me for being so direct, my friend: in his discussion about kings _he_ was above you, this time. you saw only a creature, a countenance of purely material limitations and ridiculous. _he_ conceived himself to be a symbol. that is why he is so calm and there is no doubt that he will return to his beloved people." "and will do a little shooting." "and will do a little shooting. and will throw a little scare into them. ah, wondergood, how stubborn you are in your refusal to part with the multiplication table! your republic is a simple table, while a king--do you realize it?--is a _miracle_! what can there be simpler, sillier and more hopeless than a million bearded men, governing themselves,--and how wonderful, how miraculous when this million of bearded fellows are governed by a creature! that is a miracle! and what possibilities it gives rise to! it seemed very funny to me when you spoke with so much warmth about the law, this dream of the devil. a king is necessary for the precise purpose of _breaking_ the law, in order that the _will_ may be _above_ the law!" "but laws change, magnus." "to change is only to submit to necessity and to new law, which was unknown to you before. only by breaking the law do you elevate the _will_. prove to me that god himself is subject to his own laws, i.e., to put it simply, that he cannot perform miracles, and to-morrow your shaven monkey will share the fate of loneliness and all the churches will be turned into horse stables. the miracle, wondergood, the miracle--that is what holds human beings on this cursed earth!" magnus emphasized these words by banging the table with his fist. his face was gloomy. in his dark eyes there flickered unusual excitement. speaking as if he were threatening some one, he continued: "_he_ believes in miracles and i envy him. he is insignificant, he is really what you might call a creature, but he believes in miracles. and he has already been a king and will be a king again! and we!..." he waved his hand contemptuously and began to pace the carpet like an angry captain on the deck of _his_ vessel. with much respect i gazed upon his heavy, explosive head and blazing eyes: for the first time i realized what _satanic_ ambitions there were concealed in this strange gentlemen. "and we!" magnus noticed my gaze and shouted angrily: "why do you look at me like that, wondergood? it's silly! you are thinking of my ambition? that's foolish, wondergood! would not _you_, a gentleman of illinois, also like to be...well, at least, emperor of _russia_, where the _will_ is still above the law?" "and on what particular throne have you your eye, magnus?" i replied, no longer concealing my irony. "if you are pleased to think of me so flatteringly, wondergood, i will tell you that i _aim_ much higher. nonsense, my friend! only bloodless moralists have never dreamt of a crown, just as only eunuchs have never tempted themselves with the thought of woman. nonsense! but i do not seek a throne--not even the russian throne: it is too cramping." "but there is another throne, signor magnus: the throne of god." "but why only the throne of god? and have you forgotten satan's, mr. wondergood?" and this he said to me...or did the whole street know that my throne was vacant? i bowed my head respectfully and said: "permit me to be the first to greet you...your majesty." magnus turned on me in wild wrath, gnashing his teeth, like a dog over a contested bone. and this angry atom wants to be satan! this handful of earth, hardly enough for one whiff for the devil, is dreaming to be crowned with my crown! i bowed my head still lower and dropped my eyes: i felt the gleaming flame of contempt and divine laughter blazing forth within them. i realized that it must not be given to my honored ward to know this _laughter_. i do not know how long we remained silent, but when our eyes met again they were clear, pure and innocent, like two bright rays in the shade. magnus was the first to speak: "and so?" he said. "and so?" i replied. "will you order money for the king?" "the money is at your disposal, my dear friend." magnus looked at me thoughtfully. "it's not worth while," he decided. "this miracle is old stuff. it requires too many police to compel belief. we shall perform a better miracle." "oh, undoubtedly. we shall contrive a better device. in two weeks?" "yes, about that!" replied magnus cordially. we shook hands warmly in parting and in about two hours the gracious king sent each of us a decoration: some sort of a star for me and something else for magnus. i rather pitied the poor idiot who continued to play his lone hand. april 16, rome. maria is somewhat indisposed and i hardly see her. magnus informed me of her illness--and lied about it: for some reason he does not want me to see her. does he fear anything? again cardinal x. called on him in my absence. nothing is being said to me about the "miracle." but i am patient,--and i wait. at first this was rather boresome but recently i have found a new pastime and now i am quite content. it is the roman museums, where i spend my mornings, like a conscientious american who has just learned to distinguish between a painting and a piece of sculpture. but i have no baedecker with me and i am strangely happy that i don't understand a thing about it all: marble and painting. i merely like it. i like the odor of the sea in the museums. why the sea?--i do not know: the sea is far away and i rather expected the odor of decay. and it is so spacious here--much more spacious than the campagna. in the campagna i see only space, over which run trains and automobiles. here i swim in time. there is so much time here! then, too, i rather like the fact that here they preserve with great care a chip of a marble foot or a stony sole with a bit of the heel. like an ass from illinois, i simply cannot understand what value there is in this, but i already believe that it is valuable and i am touched by your careful thrift, little man! preserve it! go on breaking the feet of live men. that is nothing. but these you must preserve. it is good, indeed, when living, dying, ever changing men, for the space of 2000 years, take such good care of a chip of marble foot. when i enter the narrow museum from the roman street, where every stone is drowned in the light of the april sun, its transparent and even shadow seems to me a peculiar light, more durable than the expensive rays of the sun. as far as i _recollect_ it is thus that eternity doth shine. and these marbles! they have swallowed as much sunlight as an englishman whiskey before they were driven into this place that they do not fear night at all.... and i, too, do not fear the night when i am near them. take care of them, man! if _this_ is what you call art, what an ass you are, wondergood. of course, you are cultured, you look upon art with reverence as upon religion and you have understood as much of it as that ass did on which the messiah entered jerusalem. and what if there should be a fire? yesterday this thought troubled me all day and i went with it to magnus. but he seems extremely occupied with something and could not, at first, understand what i was driving at. "what's the trouble, wondergood? you want to insure the vatican--or something else? make it clearer?" "oh! to insure!" i exclaimed in anger: "you are a barbarian, thomas magnus!" at last he understood. smiling cordially, he stretched, yawned and laid some paper before me. "you really are a gentleman from mars, dear wondergood. don't contradict, and sign this paper. it is the last one." "i will sign, but under one condition. your explosion must not touch the vatican." he laughed again: "would you be sorry? then you had better not sign. in general, if you are sorry about anything--about anything at all--it would be better for us to part before it is too late. there is no room for pity in my game and my play is not for sentimental american girls." "if you please...." i signed the paper and threw it aside. "but it seems as if you have earnestly entered upon the duties of satan, dear magnus!" "and does satan have duties? poor satan! then i don't want to be satan!" "neither duties nor obligations?" "neither duties nor obligations." "and what then?" he glanced at me quickly with his gleaming eyes and replied with one short word, which cut the air before my face: "_will._" "and...the current of high pressure?" magnus smiled patronizingly: "i am very glad that you remember my words so well, wondergood. they may be of use to you some day." cursed dog. i felt so much like striking him that i--bowed particularly low and politely. but he restrained me with a gracious gesture, pointing to a chair: "where are you going, wondergood? sit down. we have seen so little of each other of late. how is your health?" "fine, thank you. and how is the health of signorina maria?" "not particularly good. but it's a trifle. a few more days of waiting and you.... so you like the museums, wondergood? there was a time when i, too, gave them much time and feeling. yes, i remember, i remember.... don't you find, wondergood, that man, in mass, is a repulsive being?" i raised my eyes in astonishment: "i do not quite understand this change of subject, magnus. on the contrary, the museums have revealed to me a new and more attractive side of man...." he laughed. "love for mankind?... well, well, do not take offense at the jest, wondergood. you see: everything that man does in crayon is wonderful--but repulsive in painting. take the sketch of christianity, with its sermon on the mount, its lilies and its ears of corn, how marvelous it is! and how ugly is its picture with its sextons, its funeral pyres and its cardinal x.! a genius begins the work and an idiot, an animal, completes it. the pure and fresh wave of the ocean tide strikes the dirty shore--and returns dirty, bearing back with it corks and shells. the beginning of love, the beginning of the roman empire and the great revolution--how good are all beginnings! and their end? and even if a man here and there has managed to die as beautifully as he was born, the masses, the masses, wondergood, invariably end the liturgy in shamelessness!" "oh, but what about the causes, magnus?" "the causes? apparently we find concealed here the very _substance_ of man, of animal, evil and limited in the mass, inclined to madness, easily inoculated with all sorts of disease and crowning the widest possible road with a standstill. and that is why art is so much above man!" "i do not understand." "_what_ is there incomprehensible about it? in art it is the genius who begins and the genius completes. you understand: the genius! the fool, the imitator or the critic is quite powerless to change or mar the paintings of velasquez, the sculpture of angelo or the verse of homer. he can destroy, smash, break, burn or deface, but he is quite powerless to bring them down to his own level--and that is why he so detests real art. you understand, wondergood? his paw is helpless!" magnus waved his white hand and laughed. "but why does he guard and protect it so assiduously?" "it is not _he_ who guards and protects. this is done by a special species of _faithful watchmen_"--magnus laughed again: "and did you observe how uncomfortable they feel in the museum?" "who--they?" "well, those who came to view the things! but the most ridiculous phase of the whole business is not that the fool is a fool but that the genius unswervedly worships the fool as a neighbor and fellow being and anxiously seeks his devastating love. as if he were a savage himself, the genius does not understand that _his_ true neighbor is a genius similar to himself and he is eternally opening his embraces to the near--human...who eagerly crawls into them in order to abstract the watch from his vest pocket! yes, my dear wondergood, it is a most laughable point and i fear...." he lapsed into thought, fixing his eyes upon the floor: thus apparently do human beings gaze into the depths of their own graves. and i understood just what this genius feared, and once again i bowed before the satanic mind which in all the world recognized only itself and its own will. here was a god who would not share his power with olympus! and what a contempt for mankind! and what open contempt for me! here was a grain of earth that could make the devil himself sneeze! and do you know how i concluded that evening? i took my pious toppi by the neck and threatened to shoot him if he did not get drunk with me. and drunk we did get! we began in some dirty little cafã© and continued in some night taverns where i generously filled some black-eyed bandits with liquor, mandolin players and singers, who sang to me of maria: i drank like a farm hand who had just arrived in the city after a year of sober labor. away with the museums! i remember that i shouted much and waved my hands--but never did i love my _maria_ so tenderly, so sweetly and so painfully as in that smoke of drink, permeated with the odor of wine, oranges and some burning fat, in this wide circle of black bearded stealthy faces and rapaciously gleaming eyes, amid the melodious strains of mandolins which opened for me the very vestibules of heaven and hell! i vaguely remember some very accommodating but pompous murderers, whom i kissed and forgave in the name of maria. i remember that i proposed that all of us go to drink in the coliseum, in the very place where martyrs used to die but i do not know why we did not do it--i believe there were technical difficulties. and how splendid toppi was! at first he drank long and silently, like an archbishop. then he suddenly began to perform interesting feats. he put a bottle of chianti on his nose, the wine running all over him. he tried to perform some tricks with cards but was immediately caught by the affable bandits who brilliantly repeated the same trick. he walked on all fours and sang some religious verses through his nose. he cried and suddenly announced frankly that he was a devil. we walked home staggering along the street, bumping into walls and lampposts and hilariously enjoying ourselves like two students. toppi tried to pick a quarrel with some policemen, but, touched by their politeness, he ended by conferring his stern blessing upon them, saying gloomily: "go and sin no more." then he confessed with tears that he was in love with a certain signorina, that his love was requited and that he must therefore resign his spiritual calling. saying this, he lay down upon a stony threshold and fell into a stubborn sleep. and thus i left him. maria, maria, how you tempt me! not once have i touched your lips. yesterday i kissed only red wine...but whence come these burning traces on my lips? but yesterday i stood upon my knees, madonna, and covered you with flowers: but yesterday i timidly laid hands upon the hem of your garment, and to-day you are only a woman and i want you. my hands are trembling. the obstacles, the halls, the paces and the thresholds separating us drive me mad. i want you! i did not recognize my own eyes in the mirror: there is a thick shadow upon them. i breathe heavily and irregularly, and all day long my thoughts are wandering lustfully about your naked breast. i have forgotten everything. in whose power am i? it bends me like soft, heated iron. i am deafened, i am blinded by my own heat and sparks. what do you do, man, when _that_ happens to you? do you simply go and take the woman? do you violate her? think: it is night now and maria is so close by. i can approach her room without a sound...and i want to hear her cries! but suppose magnus bars the road for me? i will kill magnus. nonsense. no, tell me, in whose power am i? you ought to know that man? to-day, just before evening, as i was seeking to escape from myself and maria, i wandered about the streets, but it was worse there: everywhere i saw men and women, men and women. as if i had never seen them before! they all appeared naked to me. i stood long at monte-picio and tried to grasp what a sunset was but could not: before me there passed by in endless procession those men and women, gazing into each other's eyes. tell me--what is woman? i saw one--very beautiful--in an automobile. the sunset threw a rosy glow upon her pale face and in her ears there glistened two diamond sparks. she gazed upon the sunset and the sunset gazed on her, but i could not endure it: sorrow and love gripped my heart, as if i were dying. there behind her were trees, green, almost black. maria! maria! april 19, isle of capri. perfect calm reigned upon the sea. from a high precipice i gazed long upon a little schooner, motionless in the blue expanse. its white sails were rigidly still and it seemed as happy as on that memorable day. and, again, great calm descended upon me, while the holy name of _maria_ resounded purely and peacefully, like the sabbath bells on the distant shore. there i lay upon the grass, my face toward the sky. the good earth warmed my back, while my eyes were pierced with warm light, as if i had thrust my face into the sun. not more than three paces away there lay an abyss, a steep precipice, a dizzying wall, and it was delightful to imbibe the odor of grass and the spring flowers of capri. there was also the odor of toppi, who was lying beside me: when he is heated by the sun he emits the smell of fur. he was all sunburned, just as if he had been smeared with coal. in general, he is a very amiable old devil. the place where we lay is called anacapri and constitutes the elevated part of the island. the sun had already set when we began our trip downward and a half moon had risen in the sky. but there was the same quiet and warmth and from somewhere came the strains of mandolins in love, calling to maria. maria everywhere! but my love breathed with great calm, bathed in the pure moonlight rays, like the little white houses below. in such a house, at one time, did maria live, and into just such a house i will take her in about four days. a high wall along which the road ran, concealed the moon from us and here we beheld the statue of an old madonna, standing in a niche, high above the road and the surrounding bushes. before her burned with a weak flame the light of an image-lamp, and she seemed so alive in her watchful silence that my heart grew cold with sweet terror. toppi bowed his head and mumbled a prayer, while i removed my hat and thought: how high above this earthly vessel, filled with moonlit twilight and mysterious charms, you stand. thus does _maria_ stand above my soul.... enough! here again the extraordinary begins and i must pause. we shall soon drink some champagne and then we shall go to the cafã©. i understand they expect some mandolin players from naples there to-day. toppi would rather be shot than follow me: his conscience troubles him to this day. but it is good that i will be alone. april 23--rome, palazzo orsini. ...night. my palace is dead and silent, as if it were one of the ruins of ancient rome. beyond the large window lies the garden: it is transparent and white with the rays of the moon and the vaporous pole of the fountain resembles a headless vision in a silver veil. its splash is scarcely heard through the thick window-pane--as if it were the sleepy mumbling of the night guard. yes, this is all beautiful and...how do you put it?--it breathes with love. of course, it would be good to walk beside maria over the blue sand of the garden path and to trample upon her shadow. but i am disturbed and my disquiet is wider than love. in my attempts to walk lightly i wander about the room, lean against the wall, recline in silence in the corners, and all the time i seem to hear something. something far away, a thousand kilometers from here. or is this all lodged in my memory--that which i strain my ear to catch? and the thousand kilometers--are they the thousand years of my life? you would be astonished if you saw how i was dressed. my fine american costume had suddenly become unbearably heavy, so i put on my bathing suit. this made me appear thin, tall and wiry. i tried to test my nimbleness by crawling about the floor, suddenly changing the direction, like a noiseless bat. but it is not i who am restless. it is my muscles that are filled with this unrest, and i know not what they want. then i began to feel cold. i dressed and sat down to write. i drank some wine and drew down the curtains to shut the white garden from my eyes. then i examined and fixed my browning. i intend to take it with me to-morrow for a friendly chat with magnus. you see, thomas magnus has some _collaborators_. that is what he calls those gentlemen unknown to me who respectfully get out of my way when we meet, but never greet me, as if we were meeting in the street and not in my house. there were two of them when i went to capri. now they are six, according to what toppi tells me, and they live here. toppi does not like them. neither do i. they seem to have no _faces_. i could not see them. i happened to think of that just now when i tried to recall them. "these are my assistants," magnus told me to-day without trying in the least to conceal his ridicule. "well, i must say, magnus, they have had bad training. they never greet me when we meet." "on the contrary, dear wondergood! they are very well-mannered. they simply cannot bring themselves to greet you without a proper introduction. they are...extremely correct people. however, you will learn all to-morrow. don't frown. be patient, wondergood! just one more night!" "how is signorina maria's health?" "_to-morrow_ she will be well." he placed his hand upon my shoulder and brought his dark, evil, brazen eyes closer to my face: "the passion of love, eh?" i shook off his hand and shouted: "signor magnus! i...." "you?"--he frowned at me and calmly turned his back upon me: "till to-morrow, mr. wondergood!" that is why i loaded my revolver. in the evening i was handed a letter from magnus: he begged my pardon, said his conduct was due to unusual excitement and he sincerely sought my friendship and confidence. he also agreed that his _collaborators_ are really ill-mannered folk. i gazed long upon these hasty illegible lines and felt like taking with me, not my revolver, but a cannon. one more night, but how long it is! _there is danger facing me._ i feel it and my muscles _know_ it, too. do you think that i am merely afraid? i swear by eternal salvation--no! i know not where my fear has disappeared, but only a short while ago i was afraid of everything: of darkness, death and the most inconsequential pain. and now i fear nothing. i only feel strange...is that how you put it: strange? here i am on your earth, man, and i am thinking of another person who is dangerous to me and i myself am--man. and there is the moon and the fountain. and there is maria, whom i love. and here is a glass and wine. and this is--my and your life. or did i simply imagine that i was satan once? i see _it_ is all an invention, the fountain and maria and my very thoughts on the man--magnus, but the _real_ my mind can neither unravel nor understand. i assiduously examine my memory and it is silent, like a closed book, and i have no power to open this enchanted volume, concealing the whole past of my being. straining my eyesight, i gaze into the bright and distant depth from which i came upon this pasteboard earth--but i see nothing in the painful ebb and flow of the boundless fog. there, behind the fog, is my country, but it seems--it seems i have quite forgotten the road. i have again returned to wondergood's bad habit of getting drunk alone and i am slightly drunk now. no matter. it is the last time. i have just seen something after which i wish to see nothing else. i felt like taking a look at the white garden and to imagine how it would feel to walk beside maria over the path of blue sand. i turned off the light in the room and opened wide the draperies. and the white garden arose before me, like a dream, and--think of it!--over the path of blue sand there walked a man and a woman--and the woman was maria! they walked quietly, trampling upon their own shadows, and the man embraced her. the little counting machine in my breast beat madly, fell to the floor and broke, when, finally, i recognized the man--it was magnus, only magnus, dear magnus, the father. may he be cursed with his fatherly embraces! ah, how my love for _maria_ surged up again within me! i fell on my knees before the window and stretched out my hands to her.... to be sure, i had already seen something of that kind in the theater, but it's all the same to me: i stretched out my hands--was i not alone and drunk! why should i not do what i want to do? madonna! then i suddenly drew down the curtain! quietly, like a web, like a handful of moonlight, i will take this vision and weave it into night dreams. quietly!... quietly!... iv may 25, 1914.--italy. had i at my disposal, not the pitiful word but a strong orchestra, i would compel all the brass trumpets to roar. i would raise their blazing mouths to the sky and would compel them to rave incessantly in a blazen, screeching voice which would make one's hair stand on end and scatter the clouds in terror. i do not want the lying violins. hateful to me is the gentle murmur of false strings beneath the fingers of liars and scoundrels. breath! breath! my gullet is like a brass horn. my breath--a hurricane, driving forward into every narrow cleft. and all of me rings, kicks and grates like a heap of iron in the face of the wind. oh, it is not always the mighty, wrathful roar of brass trumpets. frequently, very frequently it is the pitiful wail of burned, rusty iron, crawling along lonely, like the winter, the whistle of bent twigs, which drives thought cold and fills the heart with the rust of gloom and homelessness. everything that fire can touch has burned up within me. was it i who wanted to play? was it i who yearned for the game? then--look upon this monstrous ruin of the theater wrecked by the flames: all the actors, too, have lost their lives therein.. ah, all the actors, too, have perished, and brazen truth peers now through the beggarly holes of its empty windows. by my throne,--what was that love i prattled of when i donned this human form? to whom was it that i opened my embraces? was it you...comrade? by my throne!--if i was love but _for a single moment_, henceforth i am hate and _eternally_ thus i remain. let us halt at this point to-day, dear comrade. it has been quite some time since i moved my pen upon this paper and i must now grow accustomed anew to your dull and shallow face, smeared o'er with the red of your cheeks. i seem to have forgotten how to speak the language of respectable people who have just received a trouncing. get thee hence, my friend. to-day i am a brass trumpet. tickle not my throat, little worm. leave me. may 26, italy. it was a month ago that thomas magnus _blew_ me up. yes, it is true. he really blew me up and it was a month ago, in the holy city of rome, in the palazzo orsini, when i still belonged to the billionaire henry wondergood--do you remember that genial american, with his cigar and patent gold teeth? alas! he is no longer with us. he died suddenly and you will do well if you order a requiem mass for him: his illinois soul is in need of your prayers. let us return, however, to his last hours. i shall try to be exact in my recollections and give you not only the emotions but also the words of that evening--it was evening, when the moon was shining brightly. perhaps i shall not give you quite the words spoken but, at any rate, they will be the words i heard and stored away in my memory.... if you were ever whipped, worthy comrade, then you know how difficult it was for you to count all the blows of the whip. a change of gravity! you understand? oh, you understand everything. and so let us receive the last breath of henry wondergood, blown up by the culprit thomas magnus and buried by..._maria_. i remember: i awoke on the morning after that _stormy_ evening, calm and even gay. apparently it was the effect of the sun, shining into that same, broad window through which, at night, there streamed that unwelcome and too highly significant moonlight. you understand: now the moon and now the sun? oh, you understand everything. it is probably for the very same reason i acquired my touching faith in the integrity of magnus and awaited toward evening that cloudless bliss. this expectation was all the greater because his collaborators...you remember his collaborators?--had begun to _greet_ and _bow_ to me. what is a greeting?--ah, how much it means to the faith of man! you know my good manners and, therefore, will believe me when i say that i was cold and restrained like a gentleman who has just received a legacy. but if you had put your ear to my belly you would have heard violins playing within. something about love, you understand. oh, you understand everything. and thus, with these violins did i come to magnus in the evening when the moon was shining brightly. magnus was alone. we were long silent and this indicated that an interesting conversation awaited me. finally i said: "how is the signorina's health?"... but he interrupted me: "we are facing a very difficult talk, wondergood? does that disturb you?" "oh, no, not at all." "do you want wine? well, never mind. i shall drink a little but you need not. yes, wondergood?" he laughed as he poured out the wine and here i noticed with astonishment that he himself was _very_ excited: his large, white, hangman's hands were quite noticeably trembling. i do not know exactly just when my violins ceased--i think it was at that very moment. magnus gulped down two glasses of wine--he had intended to take only a little--and, sitting down, continued: "no, you ought not to drink, wondergood. i need all your _senses_, undimmed by anything...you didn't drink anything to-day? no? that's good. your _senses_ must be clear and sober. one must not take anesthetics in such cases as...as...." "as vivisection?" he shook his head seriously in affirmation. "yes, vivisection. you have caught my idea marvelously. yes, in cases of vivisection of the soul. for instance, when a loving mother is informed of the death of her son or...a rich man that he has become penniless. but the senses, what can we do with the senses, we cannot hold them in leash all our life! you understand, wondergood? in the long run, i am not in the least so cruel a man as i occasionally seem even to myself and the _pain_ of others frequently arouses in me an unpleasant, responsive trembling. that is not good. a surgeon's hand must be firm." he looked at his fingers: they no longer trembled. he continued with a smile: "however, wine helps some. dear wondergood, i swear by eternal salvation, by which you love so to swear, that it is extremely unpleasant for me to cause you this little...pain. keep your senses, wondergood! your senses, your senses! your hand, my friend?" i gave him my hand and magnus enveloped my palm and fingers and held them long in his own paw, strained, permeated with some kind of electric currents. then he let them go, sighing with relief. "that's it. just so. courage, wondergood!" i shrugged my shoulders, lit a cigar and asked: "your illustration of the _very_ wealthy man who has suddenly become a beggar,--does that concern me? am i penniless?" magnus answered slowly as he gazed straight into my eyes: "if you wish to put it that way--yes. you have nothing left. absolutely nothing. and this palace, too, is already sold. to-morrow the new owners take possession." "oh, that is interesting. and where are my billions?" "i have them. they are mine. i am a very wealthy man, wondergood." i moved my cigar to the other corner of my mouth and asked: "and you are ready, of course, to give me a helping hand? you are a contemptible scoundrel, thomas magnus." "if that's what you call me--yes. something on that order." "and a liar!" "perhaps. in general, dear wondergood, it is very necessary for you to change your outlook on life and man. you are too much of an idealist." "and you"--i rose from my chair--"for you it is necessary to change your fellow conversationalist. permit me to bid you good-by and to send a police commissary in my place." magnus laughed. "nonsense, wondergood! everything has been done within the law. you, yourself, have handed over everything to me. this will surprise no one...with your love for humanity. of course, you can proclaim yourself insane. you understand?--and then, perhaps, i may get to the penitentiary. but you--you will land in an insane asylum. you would hardly like that, dear friend. police! well, go on talking. it will relieve the first effects of the blow." i think it was really difficult for me to conceal my excitement. i hurled my cigar angrily into the fireplace, while my eye carefully measured both the window and magnus...no, this carcass was too big to play ball with. at that moment the loss of my wealth had not yet fully impressed itself upon my mind and it was that which maddened me as much as the brazen tone of magnus and the patronizing manner of the old scoundrel. in addition, i dimly sensed something portentous of evil and sorrow, like a threat: as if some real danger were lurking not in front of me but behind my back. "what is this all about?" i shouted, stamping my foot. "what is this all about?" replied magnus, like an echo. "yes, i really cannot understand why you are so excited, wondergood. you have so frequently offered me this money and even forced it upon me and now, when the money is in my hands, you want to call the police! of course," magnus smiled--"there is a slight distinction here: in placing your money so magnanimously at my _disposal_, you still remained its master and the master of the situation, while now...you understand, old friend: now i can simply drive you out of this house!" i looked at magnus significantly. he replied with no less a significant shrug of the shoulders and cried angrily: "stop your nonsense. i am stronger than you are. do not try to be more of a fool than is absolutely necessitated by the situation." "you are an unusually brazen scoundrel, signor magnus!" "again! how these sentimental souls do seek consolation in words! take a cigar and listen to me. i have long needed money, a great deal of money. in my past, which i need not disclose to you, i have suffered certain...failures. they irritated me considerably. fools and sentimental souls, you understand? my energy was imprisoned under lock and key, like a bird in a cage. for three years i sat in this cursed cage, awaiting my chance...." "and all that--in the beautiful campagna?" "yes, in the beautiful campagna...and i had already begun to lose hope, when you appeared. i find it difficult to express myself at this point...." "be as direct as you can. have no compunctions." "you seemed very strange with all this love of yours for men and your _play_, as you finally termed it, and, my friend, for a long time i had grave doubts as to what you really were: an extraordinary fool or just a scoundrel, like myself. you see, such extraordinary asses appear so seldom that even i had my doubts. you are not angry?" "oh, not at all." "you forced money upon me and i thought: a trap! however you made your moves quickly and certain precautions on my part...." "pardon me for interrupting. so, those books of yours, your solitary contemplation of life, that little white house and everything was all a lie? and murder--do you remember all that drivel about hands steeped in blood?" "yes, i did kill. that is true. and i have pondered much upon life, while awaiting you, but the rest, of course, was falsehood. very base falsehood, but you were so credulous...." "and.. maria?" i confess that i had hardly uttered this name when i felt something clutching at my throat. magnus looked at me sharply and said gloomily: "we will discuss maria, too. but how excited you are! even your nails have turned blue. perhaps you'll have some wine? well, never mind. have patience. i shall continue. when you began your affair with maria...of course with my slight assistance...i finally concluded that you were...." "an extraordinary ass?" magnus raised his hand in a consoling gesture: "oh, no! you seemed to me to be that at the beginning. i will tell you quite truthfully, as i do everything i am telling you now: you are not a fool at all, wondergood. i have grown to know you more intimately. it doesn't matter that you have so naã¯vely surrendered your billions to me...many wise men have been fooled before by clever...scoundrels! your misfortune is quite another thing." i had the strength to smile: "my love for human beings?" "no, my friend: your contempt for human beings! your _contempt_ and at the same time your naã¯ve faith in them arising from it. you regard human beings so far below you, you are so convinced of their fatal powerlessness that you do not fear them at all and are quite ready to pat the rattlesnake's head: such a nice little rattlesnake! one should fear people, comrade! i know your _game_, but at times you were quite sincere in your prattle about man, you even pitied him, but from an elevation or from a sidetrack--i know not which. oh, if you could only hate people i would take you along with me with pleasure. but you are an egotist, a terrible egotist, wondergood, and i am even beginning to shed my regrets for having robbed you, when i think of that! whence comes this base contempt of yours?" "i am still only learning to be a man." "well, go on learning. but why do you call your professor a scoundrel: for i am your professor, wondergood!" "to the devil with this prattle. so...you do not intend to take me along with you?" "no, my friend, i do not." "so. only my billions. very well, but what about your plan: to blow up the earth or something of that kind? or did you lie on this point, too? i cannot believe that you simply intend to open...a money changer's bureau or become some ragged king!" magnus looked at me gloomily. there was even a gleam of sympathy in his eyes as he replied slowly: "no, on that point i did not lie. but you won't do for me. you would always be hanging on to my coat tails. just now you shouted: liar, scoundrel, thief.... it's strange, but you are yet only learning to be a man and you have already imbibed so much pettiness. when i shall raise my hand to strike some one, your contempt will begin to whine: don't strike, leave him alone, have pity. oh, if you could only hate! no, you are a terrible egotist, old man." i shouted: "the devil take you with your harping on this egotism! i am not in the least more stupid than you, you beast, and i cannot understand what you find so saintly in hatred!" magnus frowned: "first of all: don't shout or i'll throw you out. do you hear? yes, perhaps you are no more stupid than i am, but man's business is not your business. do you realize that, you beast? in blowing up things, i only intend to do business and you want to be the ruler of another's plant. let them steal and break down the machinery and you--you will be concerned only about your salary and the respect due you? and i--i won't stand that! all this,"--he swept the room with a broad gesture--"is my plant, _mine_, do you hear, and it is i who will be robbed. i will be robbed and injured. and i hate those who rob me. what would you have done, in the long run, with your billions, if i had not taken them from you? built conservatories and raised heirs--for the perpetuation of your kind? private yachts and diamonds for your wife? and i...give me all the gold on earth and i will throw it all into the flames of my hatred. and all because i have been insulted! when you see a hunchback you throw him a lire. so that he may continue to bear his hump, yes? and i want to destroy him, to kill him, to burn him like a crooked log. to whom do you appeal when you are fooled or when a dog bites your finger? to your wife, the police, public opinion? but suppose the wife, with the aid of your butler, plants horns on your head or public opinion fails to understand you and instead of pitying you prefers to give you a thrashing--then do you make your appeal to god? but i, i go to no one. i plead before no one, but neither do i forgive. you understand? i do not forgive! only egotists forgive! i consider myself personally insulted!" i heard him in silence. perhaps it was because i was so close to the fireplace, gazing into the fire and listening to magnus's words, each new word intermingled with a fresh blaze of a burning log; no sooner would the glowing red mass fall apart than the words, too, would break up into particles, like hot coals. my head was not at all clear and, under the influence of these burning, flaming, flying words i fell into a strange, dark drowsiness. but this was what my memory retained: "oh, if you could only hate! if you were not so cowardly and weak of soul! i would take you with me and would let you behold a fire which would forever dry your miserable tears and burn your sentimental dreams to ashes! do you hear the song of the fools of the world? they are merely loading the cannons. the wise man need only apply the fire to the fuse, you understand? could you behold calmly the sight of a blissful sheep and hungry snake lying together, separated only by a thin partition? i could not! i would drill just a little opening, a little opening...the rest they would do themselves. do you know that from the union of truth and falsehood comes an explosion? i want to unite. i shall do nothing myself: i shall only _complete_ what they have begun. do you hear how merrily they sing? i will make them dance, too! come with me, comrade! you sought some sort of a play--let me give you an extraordinary spectacle! we shall bring the whole earth into action and millions of marionettes will begin to caper obediently at our command: you know not yet how talented and obliging they are. it will be a splendid play and will give you much pleasure and amusement...." a large log fell apart and split into many sparks and hot cinders. the flame subsided, growing morose and red. a silent heat emanated from the dimmed, smoke-smeared hearth. it burned my face and suddenly there arose before me my puppets' show. the heat and fire had conjured up a mirage. i seemed to hear the crash of drums and the gay ring of cymbals, while the merry clown turned on his head at the sight of the broken skulls of the dolls. the broken heads continued to pile up. then i saw the scrap heap, with two motionless little legs protruding from the heap of rubbish. they wore rose slippers. and the drums continued beating: tump-tump-tump. and i said pensively: "i think it will hurt them." and behind my back rang out the contemptuous and indifferent reply: "quite possibly." "tump-tump-tump...." "it is all the same to you, wondergood, but i cannot! can't you see: i cannot permit every miserable biped to call himself a man. there are too many of them, already. they multiply like rabbits, under the stimulus of physicians and laws. death, deceived, cannot handle them all. it is confused and seems to have lost its dignity and moral authority. it is wasting its time in dancing halls. i hate them. it has become repulsive to me to walk upon this earth, fallen into the power of a strange, strange species. we must suspend the law, at least temporarily, and let death have its fling. however, they themselves will see to this. no, not i, but they, will do it. think not that i am particularly cruel, no--i am only logical. i am only the conclusion, the symbol of equality, the sum total, the line beneath the column of figures. you may call it ergo, magnus, ergo! they say: 'two and two' and i reply: 'four.' exactly four. imagine that the world has suddenly grown cold and immovable for a moment and you behold some such picture: here is a free and careless head and above it--a suspended axe. here is a mass of powder and here a spark about to fall upon it. but it has stopped and does not fall. here is a heavy structure, set upon a single, undermined foundation. but everything has grown rigid and the foundation holds. here is a breast and here a hand aiming a bullet at it. have i prepared all this? i merely touch the lever and press it down. the axe falls upon the laughing head and crushes it. the spark falls into the powder--all is off! the building crashes to the ground. the bullet pierces the ready breast. and i--i have merely touched the lever, i, magnus ergo! think: would i be able to kill had i at my disposal only violins or other musical instruments?" i laughed: "only violins!" magnus replied with laughter: his voice was hoarse and heavy: "but they have other instruments, too! and i will use these instruments. see how simple and interesting all this is?" "and what further, magnus ergo?" "how do i know what's to follow? i see only _this_ page and solve only _this_ problem. i know not what the next page contains." "perhaps it contains the same thing?" "perhaps it does. and perhaps this is the final page...well, what of that: the sum total remains as is necessary." "you spoke on one occasion about _miracles_?" "yes, that is my lever. you remember what i told you _about my_ explosive? i promise rabbits to make lions of them.... you see, a rabbit cannot stand brains. give a rabbit brains and he will hang himself. melancholy will drive him to suicide. brains implies logic and what can _logic_ promise to a rabbit? nothing but a sorry fate on a restaurant menu. what one must promise a rabbit is either immortality for a cheap price, as does cardinal x. or--heaven on earth. you will see what energy, what daring, etc., my rabbit will develop when i paint before him on the wall heavenly powers and gardens of eden!" "on the wall?" "yes,--on a stone wall. he will storm it with all the power of his species! and who knows...who knows...perhaps this mass may really break through this stone wall?" magnus lapsed into thought. i drew away from the now extinguished fire and looked upon the explosive head of my repulsive friend.... something naã¯ve, like two little wrinkles, almost like those of a child, lay upon his stony brow. i burst into laughter and shouted: "thomas magnus! thomas ergo! do you believe?" without raising his head, as if he had not heard my laughter, he lifted his eyes and replied pensively: "we must try." _but_ i continued to laugh: deep, wild--apparently human--laughing malice began to rise within me: "thomas magnus! magnus rabbit! do you believe?" he thumped the table with his fist and roared in a wild transport: "be quiet! i tell you: we must try. how do i know? i have never yet been on mars nor seen this earth inside-out. be silent, accursed egotist! you know nothing of our affairs. ah, if only you could hate!..." "i hate already." magnus suddenly laughed and grew strangely calm. he sat down and scrutinizing me from all possible angles, as if he did not believe me, he burst out: "you? hate? whom?" "you." he looked me over as carefully again and shook his head in doubt: "is that true, wondergood?" "if they are rabbits, you are the most repulsive of them all, because you are a mixture of rabbit and...satan. you are a coward! the fact that you are a crook, a thief, a liar, a murderer is not important. but you are a coward! that is important. i expected something more of you. i hoped your mind would lift you above the greatest crime, but you lift crime itself into some base philanthropy. you are as much of a lackey as the others. the only difference between you and them is that you have a perverted idea of service!" magnus sighed. "no, that's not it. you understand nothing, wondergood." "and what you lack is daring, my friend. if you are magnus ergo...what audacity: magnus ergo!--then why don't you go the limit? then, i, too, would follow you...perhaps!" "will you really come?" "and why should i not come? let me be contempt, and you--hatred. we can go together. do not fear lest i hang on to your coat tails. you have revealed much to me, my dear putridity, and i shall not seize your hand even though you raise it against yourself." "will you betray me?" "and you will kill me. is that not enough?" but magnus shook his head doubtfully and said: "you will betray me. i am a living human being, while you smell like a corpse. i do not want to have contempt for _myself_. if i do, i perish. don't you dare to look at me! look upon the others!" i laughed. "very well. i shall not look at _you_. i will look at the rest. i will make it easier for you with my contempt." magnus fell into prolonged thought. then he looked again at me piercingly and quietly asked: "and maria?..." oh, cursed wretch! again he hurled my heart upon the floor! i looked at him wildly, like one aroused at night by fire. and three big waves swept my breast. with the first wave rose the silent violins...ah, how they wailed, just as if the musician played not upon strings but upon my veins! then in a huge wave with foamy surf there rolled by all the images, thoughts and emotions of my recent, beloved human state: think of it: everything was there! even the lizzard that hissed at my feet that evening beneath the moonlight. i recalled even the little lizzard! and with the third wave there was rolled out quietly upon the shore the holy name: _maria_. and just as quietly it receded, leaving behind a delicate lace of foam, and from beyond the sea burst forth the rays of the sun, and for a moment, for one, little moment, i again became a white schooner, with sails lowered. where were the stars while awaiting the word of the lord of the universe to break forth in all their brilliance? madonna! magnus recalled me quietly. "where are you going? she is not there. what do you want?" "pardon me, dear magnus, but i would like to see the signorina maria. only for a moment. i don't feel quite well. there is something revolving in my eyes and head. are you smiling, dear magnus, or does it only seem so to me? i have been gazing into the fire too long and i can hardly discern the objects before me. did you say: maria? yes, i would like to see her. then we shall continue our interesting conversation. you will remind me just where we stopped, but meanwhile i would be extremely obliged to you, if we were...to take a little drive into the campagna. it is so sweet there. and signorina maria...." "sit down. you will see her presently." but i continued to weave my nonsense--what in the devil had happened to my head! i prattled on for a considerable period and now the whole thing seems so ridiculous: once or twice i pressed the heavy, motionless hand of thomas magnus: apparently he must have looked like my father at that moment. finally, i subsided, partially regained my senses but, in obedience to magnus' command, remained in my chair and prepared to listen. "can you listen now? you are quite excited, old man. remember: the senses, the senses!" "yes, now i can go on. i...remember everything. continue, old friend. i am all attention." yes, i recollected everything but it was quite immaterial to me just what magnus said or what he might say: i was awaiting maria. that is how strong my love was! turning aside for some reason and beating time with his fingers on the table, magnus said slowly and rather reluctantly: "listen, wondergood. in reality, it would be much more convenient for me to throw you out into the street, you and your idiotic toppi. you wanted to experience _all_ human life and i would have viewed with pleasure any efforts on your part to earn your own bread. you are apparently no longer used to this? it would also have been very interesting to know what would become of your grandiose contempt when.... but i am not angry. strange to say, i even nurse a feeling of thankfulness for your...billions. and i am rather hopeful. yes, i still have a little hope that some day you may really grow to be a man. and while this may prove an impediment to me, i am ready to take you with me, but only--after a certain test. are you still anxious to have...maria?" "yes." "very well." magnus rose with effort and moved toward the door. but he halted for a moment and turned toward me and--surprising as it was on the part of this scoundrel--he kissed my brow. "sit down, old man. i will call her immediately. the servants are all out to-day." he uttered the last sentence as he knocked feebly at the door. the head of one of his _aides_ appeared for a moment and immediately withdrew. with apparently the same effort magnus returned to his place and said with a sigh: "she will be here at once." we were silent. i fixed my eyes upon the tall door and it opened wide. _maria_ entered. with a quick step i moved to greet her and bowed low. magnus shouted: "don't kiss that hand!" may 27. i could not continue these notes yesterday. do not laugh! this mere combination of words: do not kiss that hand!--seemed to me the most terrible utterance the human tongue was capable of. it acted upon me like a magic curse. when i recall those words now they _interrupt_ everything i do and befog my whole being, transporting me into a new state. if i happen to be speaking i grow silent, as if suddenly stricken dumb. if i happen to be walking, i halt. if standing, i run. if i happen to be asleep, no matter how deep my slumber, i awake and cannot fall asleep again. very simple, extremely simple words: do not kiss that hand! and now listen to what happened further: and so: i bowed over _maria's_ hand. but so strange and sudden was magnus' cry, so great was the command in his hoarse voice, that it was impossible to disobey. it was as if he had stopped a blind man on the edge of a precipice! _but_ i failed to grasp his meaning and raised my head in perplexity, still holding maria's hand in mine, and looked at magnus. he was breathing heavily, as if he had actually witnessed my fall into the abyss--and in reply to my questioning look, he said in a stifled tone: "let her hand alone. maria get away from him." maria released her hand and stepped aside, at a distance from me. still perplexed i watched her, standing alone! i tried to grasp the situation. for a brief moment it seemed even extremely ludicrous and reminded me of a scene in a comedy, in which the angry father comes unexpectedly upon the sweethearts, but my silly laughter died away immediately and in obedient expectation i raised my eyes to magnus. magnus hesitated. rising with an effort, he twice paced the length of the room and halting before me, with his hands clasped behind him, said: "with all your eccentricities, you're a decent man, wondergood. i have _robbed_ you (that was how he put it) but i can no longer permit you to kiss the hand of this woman. listen! listen! i have already told you you must change your outlook upon men. i know it is very difficult and i sympathize with you, but it is essential that you do it, old friend. listen! listen! i misled you: maria is not my daughter...i have no children. neither is she a...madonna. she is my mistress and she was that as recently as last night...." now i understand that magnus was merciful in his own way and was intentionally submerging me slowly into darkness. but at that time i did not realize this and _slowly_ stifling, my breath gradually dying, i lost consciousness. and when with magnus' last words the light fled from me and impenetrable night enveloped my being, i whipped out my revolver and fired at magnus several times in succession. i do not know how many shots i fired. i remember only a series of laughing, flickering flames and the movements of my hand, pushing the weapon forward. i cannot remember at all how and when his _aides_ rushed in and disarmed me. when i regained my senses this was the picture i saw: the _aides_ were gone. i was sitting deep in my chair before the dark fireplace, my hair was wet, while above my left eyebrow there was a bandage soaked in blood. my collar was gone and my shirt was torn, my left sleeve was almost entirely torn off, so that i had to keep jerking it up constantly. maria stood on the same spot, in the same pose, as if she had not moved at all during the struggle. i was surprised to see toppi, who sat in a corner and gazed at me strangely. at the table, with his back to me, stood magnus. he was pouring out some wine for himself. when i heaved a particularly deep sigh, magnus turned quickly and said in a strangely familiar tone: "do you want some wine, wondergood? you may have a glass now. here, drink.... you see you failed to hit me. i do not know whether to be glad or not, but i am alive. to your health, old man!" i touched my brow with my finger and mumbled: "blood...." "a mere trifle, just a little scratch. it won't matter. don't touch it." "it smells." "with powder? yes, that'll soon pass, too. toppi is here. do you see him? he asked permission to stay here. you won't object if your secretary remains while we continue our conversation? he is extremely devoted to you." i looked at toppi and smiled. toppi made a grimace and sighed gently: "mr. wondergood! it is i, your toppi." and he burst into tears. this old devil, still emitting the odor of fur, this old clown in black, this sexton with hanging nose, this seducer of little girls--burst into tears! but still worse was it when, blinking my eyes, i, too, began to weep, i, "the wise, immortal, almighty!" thus we both wept, two deceived devils who happened to drop in upon this earth, and human beings--i am happy to give them their due!--looked on with deep sympathy for our tears. weeping and laughing at the same time, i asked: "it's difficult to be a man, toppi?" and toppi, sobbing, replied obediently: "very difficult, mr. wondergood." but here i happened to look at maria and my sentimental tears immediately dried. in general, that evening is memorable for the sudden and ludicrous transformations of my moods. you probably know them, old man? now i wept and beat the lyre, like a weeping post, now i became permeated with a stony calm and a sense of unconquerable power, or i began to chatter nonsense, like a parrot scared to death by a dog, and kept up my chatter, louder, sillier and more and more unbearable, until a new mood bore me off into a deep and inexpressible sadness. magnus caught my look at maria and smiled involuntarily. i adjusted the collar of my torn shirt and said _dryly_: "i do not know whether to be glad or sorry that i failed to kill you, old friend. i am quite calm now, however, and would like you to tell me everything about...that woman. but as you are a liar, let me question her first. signorina maria, you were my bride? and in a few days i hoped to call you my wife. but tell me the truth: are you really...this man's mistress?" "yes, signor." "and...how long?" "five years, signor." "and how old are you now." "nineteen, signor." "that means you were fourteen.... now you may continue, magnus." "oh, my god!" (it was toppi who exclaimed.) "sit down, maria.--as you see, wondergood,"--began magnus in a dry and calm tone, as if he were demonstrating not himself but some sort of a chemical compound--"this mistress of mine is quite an extraordinary phenomenon. with all her unusual resemblance to the madonna, capable of deceiving men better versed than you or i in religion, with all her really unearthly beauty, chastity and charm--she is a licentious and quite shameless creature, ready to sell herself from head to foot...." "magnus!" "calm yourself. you see how she listens to me? even your old toppi is cringing and blushing while she--her gaze is clear and all her features are filled with placid harmony...did you notice how clear maria's gaze is? do you hear me?" "yes, certainly." "would you like wine or an orange? take it. there it is on the table. incidentally, observe her graceful walk: she seems to be always stepping lightly as if on flowers or clouds. what extraordinary beauty and litheness! as an old lover of hers, i may also add the following detail which you have not learned yet: she herself, her body, has the fragrance of some flowers. now as to her spiritual qualities, as the psychologists put it. if i were to speak of them in ordinary language, i would say she was as stupid as a goose,--quite a hopeless fool. but she is cunning. and a liar. very avaricious as regards money but she likes it only in gold. everything she told you she learned from me, memorizing the more difficult lines...and i had quite a task in teaching her. but i feared all the time that, despite your love, you would be struck by her apparent lack of brains and that is why i kept her from you the last few days." toppi sobbed: "oh, god! madonna!" "does this astonish you, mr. toppi?"--magnus asked, turning his head. "i dare say you are not alone. do you remember, wondergood, what i told you about maria's _fatal_ resemblance, which drove one young man to suicide. i did not lie to you altogether: the youth actually did kill himself when he realized who maria really was. he was pure of soul. he loved as you do and as you he could not bear--how do you put it?--the wreck of his ideal." magnus laughed: "do you remember giovanni, maria?" "slightly." "do you hear, wondergood?" asked magnus, laughing. "that is exactly the tone in which she would have spoken of me a week hence if you had killed me to-day. have another orange, maria.... but if i were to speak of maria in extraordinary language--she is not at all stupid. she simply doesn't happen to have what is called a soul. i have frequently tried to look deep into her heart and thoughts and i have always ended in vertigo, as if i had been hurled to the edge of an abyss: there was _nothing_ there. emptiness. you have probably observed, wondergood, or you, mr. toppi, that ice is not as cold as the brow of a _dead_ man? and no matter what emptiness familiar to you you may imagine, my friends, it cannot be compared with that absolute vacuum which forms the kernel of my beautiful, light-giving star. star of the seas?--that was what you once called her, wondergood, was it not?" magnus laughed again and gulped down a glass of wine. he drank a great deal that evening. "will you have some wine, mr. toppi? no? well, suit yourself. i'll take some. so that is why, mr. wondergood, i did not want you to kiss the hand of that creature. don't turn your eyes away, old friend. imagine you are in a museum and look straight at her, bravely. did you wish to say something, toppi?" "yes, signor magnus. pardon me, mr. wondergood, but i would like to ask your permission to leave. as a gentleman, although not much of that, i...cannot remain...at...." magnus narrowed his eyes derisively: "at such a scene?" "yes, at such a scene, when one gentleman, with the silent approval of another gentleman, insults a woman like _that_," exclaimed toppi, extremely irritated, and rose. magnus, just as ironically, turned to me: "and what do you say, wondergood? shall we release this little, extremely little, gentleman?" "stay, toppi." toppi sat down obediently. from the moment magnus resumed, i, for the first time, regained my breath and looked at maria. what shall i say to you? it was _maria_. and here i understood a little _what_ happens in one's brain when one begins to go mad. "may i continue?" asked magnus. "however, i have little to add. yes, i took her when she was fourteen or fifteen years old. she herself does not know how old she really is, but i was not her first lover...nor the tenth. i could never learn her past exactly. she either lies cunningly or is actually devoid of memory. but even the most subtle questioning, which even a most expert criminal could not dodge, neither bribes nor gifts, nor threats--and she is extremely cowardly!--could compel her to reveal herself. she does not 'remember.' that's all. but her deep licentiousness, enough to shame the sultan himself, her extraordinary experience and daring in ars amandi confirms my suspicion that she received her training in a lupanaria or...or at the court of some nero. i do not know how old she is and she seems to change constantly. why should i not say that she is 20 or 2000 years old? maria...you can do everything and you know everything?" i did not look at that woman. but in her answer there was a slight displeasure: "don't talk nonsense. what will mr. wondergood think of me?" magnus broke into loud laughter and struck the table with his glass: "do you hear, wondergood? she covets your good opinion. and if i should command her to undress at once in your presence...." "oh, my god! my god!"--sobbed toppi and covered his face with his hands. i glanced quickly into magnus' eyes--and remained rigid in the terrible enchantment of his gaze. his face was laughing. this pale mask of his was still lined with traces of faint laughter but the eyes were dim and inscrutable. directed upon me, they stared off somewhere into the distance and were horrible in their expression of dark and _empty_ madness: only the empty orbits of a skull could gaze so threateningly and in such wrath. and again darkness filled my head and when i regained my senses magnus had already turned and calmly sipped his wine. without changing his position, he raised his glass to the light, smelled the wine, sipped some more of it and said as calmly as before: "and so, wondergood, my friend. now you know about all there is to know of maria or the madonna, as you called her, and i ask you: will you take her or not? i give her away. take her. if you say yes, she will be in your bedroom to-day and...i swear by eternal salvation, you will pass a very pleasant night. well, what do you say?" "yesterday, you, and to-day, i?" "yesterday i,--to-day, you." he smiled: "what kind of man are you, wondergood, to speak of such trifles. or aren't you used to having some one else warm your bed? take her. she is a fine girl." "whom are you torturing, magnus:--me or yourself?" magnus looked at me ironically: "what a wise boy! of course, myself! you are a very clever american, mr. wondergood, and i wonder why your career has been so mediocre. go to bed, dear children. good night. what are you looking at, wondergood: do you find the hour too early? if so, take her out for a walk in the garden. when you see maria beneath the moonlight, 3000 magnuses will be unable to prove that this heavenly maiden is the same creature who...." i flared up: "you are a disgusting scoundrel and liar, thomas magnus! if she has received her training in a lupanaria, then you, my worthy signor, must have received your higher education in the penitentiary. whence comes that aroma which permeates so thoroughly your gentlemanly jokes and witticisms. the sight of your pale face is beginning to nauseate me. after enticing a woman in the fashion of a petty, common hero...." magnus struck the table with his fist. his bloodshot eyes were aflame. "silence! you are an inconceivable ass, wondergood! don't you understand that i myself, like you, was deceived by her? who, meeting _madonna_, can escape deception? oh devil! what are the sufferings of your little, shallow american soul in comparison with the pangs of mine? oh devil! witticism, jests, gentlemen and ladies, asses and tigers, gods and devils! can't you see: this is not a woman, this is--an eagle who daily plucks my liver! my suffering begins in the morning. each morning, oblivious to what passed the day before, i see madonna before me and believe. i think: what happened to me yesterday? apparently, i must be mistaken or did i miss anything? it is impossible that this clear gaze, this divine walk, this pure countenance of madonna should belong to a prostitute. it is your soul that is vile, thomas magnus: she is as pure as a host. and there were occasions when, on my knees, i actually begged forgiveness of this creature! can you imagine it: on my knees! then it was that i was really a scoundrel, wondergood. i idealized her, endowed her with my thoughts and feelings and was overjoyed, like an idiot. i almost wept with felicity when she mumblingly repeated what i would say. like a high priest i painted my idol and then knelt before it in intoxication! but the truth proved stronger at last. with each moment, with each hour, falsehood slipped off her body, so that, toward night, i even beat her. i beat her and wept. i beat her cruelly as does a procurer his mistress. and then came night with its babylonian licentiousness, the sleep of the dead and--oblivion. and then morning again. and again madonna. and again...oh, devil! over night my faith again grew, as did the liver of prometheus, and like a bird of prey she tortured me all day. i, too, am human, wondergood!" shivering as if with cold, magnus began to pace the room rapidly, gazed into the dark fireplace and approached maria. maria lifted her clear gaze to him, as if in question, while magnus stroked her head carefully and gently, as he would that of a parrot or a cat: "what a little head! what a sweet, little head.... wondergood! come, caress it!" i drew up my torn sleeve and asked ironically: "and it is this bird of prey that you now wish to give to me? have you exhausted your feed? you want my liver, too, in addition to my billions?" but magnus had already calmed himself. subduing his excitement and the drunkenness which had imperceptibly come upon him, he returned to his place without haste and ordered politely: "i will answer you in a moment, mr. wondergood. please withdraw to your room maria. i have something to say to mr. wondergood. and i would ask you, too, my honorable mr. toppi, to depart. you may join my friends in the salon." "if mr. wondergood will so command...." replied toppi, dryly, without rising. i nodded and, without looking at magnus, my secretary obediently made his exit. maria, too, left the room. to tell the truth, i again felt like clinging to his vest and weeping in the first few moments of my tãªte-ã -tãªte with magnus: after all, this thief was my friend! but i satisfied myself with merely swallowing my tears. then followed a moment of brief desperation at the _departure_ of maria. and slowly, as if from the realm of remote recollection, blind and wild anger and the need of beating and destroying began to fill my heart. let me add, too, that i was extremely provoked by my torn sleeve that kept slipping constantly: it was necessary for me to be stern and austere and this made me seem ridiculous...ah, on what trifles does the result of the greatest events depend on this earth! i lighted a cigar and with studied gruffness hurled into the calm and hateful face of magnus: "now, you! enough of comedy and charlatanism. tell me what you want. so you want me to surrender to that bird of prey of yours?" magnus replied calmly, although his eyes were burning with anger: "yes. that is the trial i wanted to subject you to, wondergood. i fear that i have succumbed slightly to the emotion of useless and vain revenge and spoke more heatedly than was necessary in maria's presence. the thing is, wondergood, that all that i have so picturesquely described to you, all this passion and despair and all these sufferings of...prometheus really belong to the past. i now look upon maria without pain and even with a certain amount of pleasure, as upon a beautiful and useful little beast...useful for domestic considerations. you understand? what after all, is the liver of prometheus? it is all nonsense! in reality, i should be thankful to maria. she gnawed out with her little teeth my silly _faith_ and gave me that clear, firm and realistic outlook upon life which permits of no deceptions and...sentimentalisms. you, too, ought to experience and grasp it, wondergood, if you would follow magnus ergo." i remained silent, lazily chewing my cigar. magnus lowered his eyes and continued still more calmly and dryly: "desert pilgrims, to accustom themselves to death, used to sleep in coffins: let maria be your coffin and when you feel like going to church, kissing a woman and stretching your hand to a friend, just look at maria and her _father_, thomas magnus. take her, wondergood, and you will soon convince yourself of the value of my gift. i don't need her any longer. and when your humiliated soul shall become inflamed with truly inextinguishable, human hatred and not with weak contempt, come to me and i shall welcome you into the ranks of my yeomanry, which will very soon.... are you hesitating? well, then go, catch other lies, but be careful to avoid scoundrels and madonnas, my gentleman from illinois!" he broke into loud laughter and swallowed a glass of wine at one gulp. his swollen calm evaporated. little flames of intoxication, now merry, now ludicrous, like the lights of a carnival, now triumphant, now dim, like funeral torches at a grave, again sprang forth in his bloodshot eyes. the scoundrel was drunk but held himself firmly, merely swaying his branches, like an oak before a south wind. rising and facing me, he straightened his body cynically, as if trying to reveal himself in his entirety, and well nigh spat these words at me: "well? how long do you intend to think about it, you ass? come, quick, or i'll kick you out! quick! i'm tired of you! what's the use of my wasting words? what are you thinking of?" my head buzzed. madly pulling up that accursed sleeve of mine, i replied: "i am thinking that you are an evil, contemptible, stupid and repulsive beast! i am thinking in what springs of life or hell itself i could find for you the punishment you deserve! yes, i came upon this earth to play and to laugh. yes, i myself was ready to embrace any evil. i myself lied and pretended, but you, hairy worm, you crawled into my very heart and bit me. you took advantage of the fact that my heart was human and bit me, you hairy worm. how dared you deceive me? i will punish you." "you? me?" i am glad to say that magnus was astonished and taken aback. his eyes widened and grew round and his open mouth naã¯vely displayed a set of white teeth. breathing with difficulty, he repeated: "you? me?" "yes. i--you." "police?" "you are not afraid of it? very well. let all your courts be powerless, remain unpunished on this earth, you evil conscienceless creature! the day will come when the sea of falsehood, which constitutes your life, will part and all your falsehood, too, will give way and disappear. let there be no foot upon this earth to crush you, hairy worm. let! i, too, am powerless here. but the day will come when you will depart from this earth. and when you come to _me_ and fall under the shadow of my kingdom...." "your kingdom? hold on, wondergood. who are you, then?" and right at this point there occurred the most shameful event of my entire earthly life. tell me: is it not ridiculously funny when satan, even in human form, bends his knee in prayer to a prostitute and is stripped naked by the very first man he meets? yes, this is extremely ridiculous and shameful of satan, who bears with him the breath of eternity. but what would you say of satan when he turned into a powerless and pitiful liar and pasted upon his head with a great flourish the paper crown of a theatrical czar? i am ashamed, old man. give me one of your blows, the kind on which you feed your friends and hired clowns. or has this torn sleeve brought me to this senseless, pitiful wrath? or was this the last act of my human masquerade, when man's spirit descends to the mire and sweeps the dust and dirt with its breath? or has the _ruin_ of madonna, which i witnessed, dragged satan, too, into the same abyss? but this was--think of it!--this was what i answered magnus. thrusting out my chest, barely covered with my torn shirt, stealthily pulling up my sleeve, so that it might not slip off entirely, and looking sternly and angrily directly into the stupid, and as they seemed to me, frightened eyes of the scoundrel magnus, i replied _triumphantly_: "i am--satan!" magnus was silent for a moment--and then broke out into all the laughter that a drunken, repulsive, human belly can contain. of course you, old man, expected that, but i did not. i swear by eternal salvation, i did not! i shouted something but the brazen laughter of this beast drowned my voice. finally, taking advantage of a moment's interval between his thundering peals of laughter, i exclaimed quickly and modestly...like a footnote at the bottom of a page, like a commentary of a publisher: "don't you understand: i am satan. i have donned the human form! i have donned the human form!" he heard me with his eyes bulging, and with fresh thunderous roars of laughter, the outbursts shaking his entire frame, he moved toward the door, flung it open and shouted: "here! come here! here is satan! in human...human garb!" and he disappeared behind the door. oh, if i could only have fallen through the floor, disappeared or flown away, like a real devil, on wings, in that endless moment, during which he was gathering the _public_ for an extraordinary spectacle. and now they came--all of them, damn them: maria and all the six _aides_ and my miserable toppi, and magnus himself, and completing the procession--his eminence, cardinal x.! the cursed, shaven monkey walked with great dignity and even bowed to me, after which he sat down, just as dignified, in an armchair and carefully covered his knees with his robes. all were wondering, not knowing yet what it was all about, and glanced now at me and now at magnus, who tried hard to look serious. "what's the trouble, signor magnus?" asked the cardinal in a benevolent tone. "permit me to report the following, your eminence: mr. henry wondergood has just informed me that he is--satan. yes, satan, and that he has merely donned the human form. and thus our assumption that he is an american from illinois falls. mr. wondergood is satan and apparently has but recently deigned to arrive from hell. what shall we do about it, your eminence?" silence might have saved me. but how could i restrain this maddened wondergood, whose heart was aflame with insult! like a lackey who has appropriated his celebrated master's name and who faintly senses something of his grandeur, power and connections--wondergood stepped forward and said with an ironic bow: "yes, i am satan. but i must add to the speech of signor magnus that not only do i wear the human form but also that i have been robbed. are those _two_ scoundrels who have robbed me known to you, your eminence? and are you, perhaps, one of them, your eminence?" magnus alone continued to smile. the rest, it seemed to me, grew serious and awaited the cardinal's reply. it followed. the shaven monkey, it developed, was not a bad actor. pretending to be startled, the cardinal raised his right hand and said with an expression of extreme goodness, contrasting sharply with his words and gesture: "vade petro satanas!" i am not going to describe to you how they laughed. you can imagine it. even maria's teeth parted slightly. almost losing consciousness from anger and impotence, i turned to toppi for sympathy and aid. but toppi, covering his face with his hands, was cringing in the corner, silent. amid general laughter, and ringing far above it, came the heavy voice of magnus, laden with infinite ridicule: "look at the plucked rooster. that is satan!" and again there came an outburst of laughter. his eminence continuously shook, as though flapping his wings, and choked and whined. the monkey's gullet could hardly pass the cascades of laughter. i tore off that accursed sleeve madly and waving it like a flag, i ventured into a sea of falsehood, with full sails set. i knew that somewhere ahead there were rocks against which i might be shattered but the tempest of impotence and anger bore me on like a chip of wood. i am ashamed to repeat my speech here. every word of it was trembling and wailing with impotency. like a village vicar, frightening his ignorant parishioners, i threatened them with _hell_ and with all the dantean tortures of literary fame. oh, i did know something that i might really have frightened them with but how could i express the _extraordinary_ which is inexpressible in their language? and so i prattled on of eternal fire. of eternal torture. of unquenchable thirst. of the gnashing of teeth. of the fruitlessness of tears and pleading. and what else? ah, even of red hot forks i prattled, maddened more and more by the indifference and shamelessness of these shallow faces, these small eyes, these mediocre souls, regarding themselves above punishment. but they remained unmoved and smug, as if in a fortress, beyond the walls of their mediocrity and fatal blindness. and all my words were shattered against their impenetrable skulls! and think of it, the only one who was really frightened was my toppi! and yet he alone could _know_ that all my words were lies! it was so unbearably ridiculous when i met his pleading frightened eyes, that i abruptly ended my speech, suddenly, at its very climax. silently, i waved my torn sleeve, which served me as a standard, once or twice, and hurled it into the corner. for a moment it seemed to me that the shaven monkey, too, was frightened: the blue of his cheeks seemed to stand out sharply upon the pale, square face and the little coals of his eyes were glowing suspiciously beneath his black, bushy eyebrows. but he slowly raised his hand and the same sacrilegiously-jesting voice broke the general silence: "vade petro satanas!" or did the cardinal try to hide behind this jest his actual fright? i do not know. i know nothing. if i could not destroy them, like sodom and gomorrah, is it worth while speaking of cold shivers and goose flesh? a mere glass of wine can conquer them. and magnus, like the skilled healer of souls that he was, said calmly: "will you have a glass of wine, your eminence?" "with pleasure," replied the cardinal. "but none for satan," added magnus jestingly, pouring out the wine. but he could speak and do anything he pleased now: wondergood was squeezed dry and hung like a rag upon the arm of the chair. after the wine had been drunk, magnus lit a cigarette (he smokes cigarettes), cast his eye over the audience, like a lecturer before a lecture, motioned pleasantly to toppi, now grown quite pale, and said the following...although he was obviously drunk and his eyes were bloodshot, his voice was firm and his speech flowed with measured calm: "i must say, wondergood, that i listened to you very attentively and your passionate tirade created upon me, i may say, a great, artistic impression...at certain points you reminded me of the best passages of brother geronimo savanarola. don't you also find the same striking resemblance, your eminence? but alas! you are slightly behind the times. those threats of hell and eternal torture with which you might have driven the beautiful and merry florence to panic ring extremely unconvincing in the atmosphere of contemporary rome. the sinners have long since departed from the earth, mr. wondergood. have not you noticed that? and as for criminals, and, as you have expressed it, scoundrels,--a plain commissary of police is much more alarming to them than beelzebub himself with his whole staff of devils. i must also confess that your reference to the court of history and posterity was rather strange when contrasted with the picture you painted of the tortures of hell and your reference to eternity. but here, too, you failed to rise to the height of contemporary thought: every fool nowadays knows that history records with equal impartiality both the names of saints and of rogues. the whole point, mr. wondergood, which you, as an american, should be particularly familiar with, is in the scope with which history treats its respective subjects and heroes. the lashings history administers to its great criminals differ but little from her laurels--when viewed at a distance and this little distinction eventually becomes quite invisible--i assure you, wondergood. in fact, it disappears entirely! and in so far as the biped strives to find a place in history--and we are all animated by this desire, mr. wondergood--it need not be particular through which door it enters: i beg the indulgence of his eminence, but no prostitute received a new guest with greater welcome than does history a new...hero. i fear, wondergood, that your references to hell as well as those to history have fallen flat. ah, i fear your hope in the police will prove equally ill-founded: i have failed to tell you that his eminence has received a certain share of those billions which you have transferred to me in such a perfectly legal manner, while his connections...you understand?" poor toppi: all he could do was to keep on blinking! the _aides_ broke into loud laughter, but the cardinal mumbled angrily, casting upon me the burning little coals of his eyes: "he is indeed a brazen fellow. he said he is satan. throw him out, signor magnus. this is sacrilege!" "is that so?" smiled magnus politely: "i did not know that satan, too, belonged to the heavenly chair...." "satan is a fallen angel," said the cardinal in an instructive tone. "and as such he is in your service? i understand," magnus bowed his head politely in acceptance of this truth and turned smilingly to me: "do you hear, wondergood? his eminence is irritated by your audacity." i was silent. magnus winked at me slyly and continued with an air of artificial importance: "i believe, your eminence, that there must be some sort of misunderstanding here. i know the modesty and well-informed mind of mr. wondergood and i suppose that he utilized the name of satan merely as an artistic gesture. does satan ever threaten people with the police? but my unfortunate friend did. and, in general, has anybody ever seen _such_ a satan?" he stretched his hand out to me in an effective gesture--and the reply to this was another outburst of laughter. the cardinal, too, laughed, and toppi alone shook his wise head, as if to say: "idiots!"... i think magnus must have noticed that. or else he fell into intoxication. or was it because that spirit of murder with which his soul was aflame could not remain passive and was tearing at the leash. he threateningly shook his heavy, explosive head and shouted: "enough of this laughter! it is silly. why are you so sure of yourselves? it is stupid, i tell you. i believe in nothing and that is why i admit _everything_. press my hand, wondergood: they are all fools and i am quite ready to admit that you are satan. only you have fallen into a bad mess, friend satan. because it will not save you. i will soon throw you out anyhow! do you hear...devil?" he shook his finger at me threateningly and then lapsed into thought, dropping his head low and heavily, with his red eyes ablaze, like those of a bull, ready to hurl himself upon his enemy. the _aides_ and the insulted cardinal were silent with confusion. magnus again shook his finger at me significantly and said: "if you are satan, then you've come here too late. do you understand? what did you come here for, anyway? to play, you say? to tempt? to laugh at us human beings? to invent some sort of a new, evil game? to make us dance to your tune? well,--you're too late. you should have come earlier, for the earth is grown now and no longer needs your talents. i speak not of myself, who deceived you so easily and took away your money: i, thomas ergo. i speak not of maria. but look at these modest little friends of mine: where in your hell will you find such charming, fearless devils, ready for any task? and yet they are so small,--they will not even find a place in history." it was after this that thomas magnus blew me up, in the holy city of rome, in the palazzo orsini, when i still belonged to the american billionaire, henry wondergood. do you remember that genial american with his cigar and patent gold teeth? alas! he is no longer with us. he died suddenly and you will do well if you order a requiem mass for him: his illinois soul is in need of your prayers. let us receive the last breath of henry wondergood, blown up by the culprit thomas magnus, and buried by maria in the evening, when the moon was shining brightly. the end * * * * * transcriber's notes punctuation has been standardised. characters in small caps have been replaced by all caps. italic text has been denoted by _underscores_. this book was written in a period when many words had not become standarized in their spelling. numerous words have multiple spelling and hypenating variations in the text. these have been left unchanged while obvious spelling mistakes have been repaired unless noted below: pg 17 the following jumbled sentence has been edited to remove the repeated phrases: "again silence. finally there came a gruff voice, still silence. i knocked. again silence. finally there came a gruff voice, asking from behind the iron door:" pg 58 part of the sentence asking about maria appears to be missing from the original. (seek him in eternity.") 