THE MARRIAGE OF SOBEIDE (1899)TRANSLATED BY BAYARD QUINCY MORGAN, PH.D.Assistant Professor of German, University of WisconsinSCENE ISleeping chamber in the house of the wealthyMerchant. To the rear an alcove with dark curtains. To the left a door, to the right a small door leading into the garden, and a window. Candles.Enter theMerchantand his old Servant,BAHRAM.Merchant.Speak, Bahram, gav'st thou heed unto my bride?Servant.Heed, in what sense!Merchant.She is not cheerful, Bahram.Servant.She is a serious girl. And 'tis a momentThat sobers e'en the flightiest, remember.Merchant.Not she alone: the more I bade them kindleLights upon lights, the heavier hung a cloudAbout this wedding-feast. They smiled like masks,And I could catch the dark or pitying glancesThey flung to one another; and her fatherWould oft subside into a dark reflection,From which he roused himself with laughter forced,Unnatural.Servant.My Lord, our common clayEndureth none too well the quiet splendorOf hours like these. We are but little usedTo aught but dragging through our daily roundOf littleness. And on such high occasionsWe feel the quiet opening of a portalFrom which an unfamiliar, icy breathOur spirit chills, and warns us of the grave.As in a glass we then behold our ownForgotten likeness come into our vision,And easier 'twere to weep than to be merry.Merchant.She tasted not a morsel that thou placedBefore her.Servant.Lord, her modest maidenhoodWas like a noose about her throat; but yetShe ate some of the fruit.Merchant.Yes, one small seed,I noticed that, 'twas a pomegranate seed.Servant.Then too she suddenly bethought herselfThat wine, a blood-red flame in sparkling crystal,Before her stood, and raised the splendid gobletAnd drank as with a sudden firm resolveThe half of it, so that the color floodedHer cheeks, and deep she sighed as with relief.Merchant.Methinks that was no happy resolution.So acts the man who would deceive himself,And veils his glance, because the road affrights him.Servant.Vain torments these: this is but women's way.Merchant(looks about the room, smiles).A mirror, too, I see thou hast provided.Servant.Thine own command, the mirror is thy mother's,Brought hither from her chamber with the rest.And thou thyself didst bid me, just this one ...Merchant.What, did I so? It was a moment, then,When I was shrewder than I am just now.Yes, yes, a youthful bride must have a mirror.Servant.Now I will go to fetch your mother's gobletAnd bring the cooling evening drink.Merchant.Ah yes,Go, my good Bahram, fetch the evening drink.[ExitBAHRAM. ]Thou mirror of my mother, dwells no glimmerIn thee of her sweet pallid smile, to riseAs from the dewy mirror of a well-spring?Her smile, the faintest, loveliest I have known,Was like the flutter of a tiny birdling,That sleeps its last upon the hollowed hand.[Stands before the mirror.]No, naught but glass. Too long it empty stood.Only a face that does not smile—my own.My Self, beheld with my own eyes, so vacantAs if one glass but mirrored forth another,Unconscious.—Oh for higher vision yet,For but one moment infinitely brief,To see how stands uponherspirit's mirrorMy image! Is't an old man she beholds?Am I as young as oft I deem myself,When in the silent night I lie and listenTo hear my blood surge through its winding course?Is it not being young, to have so littleOf rigidness or hardness in my nature?I feel as if my spirit, nursed and rearedOn nourishment so dreamlike, bloodless, thin,Were youthful still. How else should visit meThis faltering feeling, just as in my boyhood,This strange uneasiness of happiness,As if 'twould slip each moment from my handsAnd fade like shadows? Can the old feel this?No, old men take the world for something hardAnd dreamless; what their fingers grasp and hold,They hold. WhileIam even now a-quiverWith all this moment brings; no youthful monarchWere more intoxicated, when the breezesShould waft to him that cryptic word "possession."[He nears the window.]Ah, lovely stars, are ye out there as ever?From out of this unstable mortal bodyTo look upon your courses in your whirlingEternal orbits—that has been the foodThat bore with ease my years, until I thoughtI scarcely felt my feet upon the earth.And have I really withered, while my eyesClung to yon golden suns, that do not wither?And have I learned of all the quiet plants,And marked their parts and understood their lives,And how they differ when upon the mountains,Or when by running streams we find them growing,—Almost a new creation, yet at bottomA single species; and with confidenceCould say, this one does well, its food is pure,And lightly bears the burden of its leaves,But this through worthless soil and sultry vaporsHas thickened stems, and bloated, swollen leaves ...And more ... and of myself I can know nothing,And heavy scales are crusted on my eyes,Impeding judgment ...[He hastily steps before the mirror again.]Soulless tool!Not like some books and men caught unawares:Thou never canst reveal the hidden truthAs in a lightning flash.Servant(returning).My master.Merchant.Well?Servant.The guests depart. The father of thy brideAnd others have been asking after thee.Merchant.And what of her?Servant.She takes leave of her parents.[Merchantstands a moment with staringeyes, then goes out at the door to the leftwith long strides.Servantfollows him.The stage remains empty for a short time.Then theMerchantreënters, hearing acandelabrum which he places on the tablebeside the evening drink.Sobeideentersbehind him, led by her father and mother.All stop in the centre of the room, somewhatto the left, theMerchantslightly removedfrom the rest.Sobeidegently releasesherself. Her veil hangs down behind her.She wears a string of pearls in her hair,a larger one about her neck.]Father.From much in life I have been forced to part.This is the hardest. My belovéd daughter,This is the day which I began to dreadWhen still I saw thee smiling in thy cradle,And which has been my nightmare o'er and o'er.(To theMerchant. )Forgive me. She is more to me than child.I give thee that for which I have no name,For every name comprises but a part—But she was everything to me!Sobeide.Dear father,My mother will be with thee.Mother(gently).Cross him not:He is quite right to overlook his wife.I have become a part of his own being,What strikes me, strikes him too; but what I doAffects him only as when right and leftOf his own body meet. Meanwhile, however,The soul remains through all its days a nursling,And reaches out for breasts more full of life,Farewell. Be no worse helpmeet than I was,And mayst thou be as happy too. This wordEmbraces all.Sobeide.Embrace—that is the word;Till now my fate was in your own embraced,But now the life of this man standing hereSwings wide its gates, and in this single momentI breathe for once the blessed air of freedom:No longer yours, and still not his as yet.I beg you, go; for this unwonted thing,As new to me as wine, has greater power,And makes me view my life and his and yoursWith other eyes than were perhaps befitting.(With a forced smile.)I beg you, look not in such wonderment:Such notions oft go flitting through my head,Nor dream nor yet reality. Ye know,As child I was much worse. And then the danceWhich I invented, is't not such a thing:Wherein from torchlight and the black of nightI made myself a shifting, drifting palace,From which I then emerged, as do the queensOf fire and ocean in the fairy-tales.[TheMotherhas meanwhile thrown theFATHER a glance and has noiselessly goneto the door. Noiselessly the FATHER hasfollowed her. Now they stand with claspedhands in the doorway, to vanish the nextmoment.]Ye go so softly? What? And are ye gone?[She turns and stands silent, her eyes castdown.]Merchant(caresses her with a long look, then goes to therear, but stops again irresolute).Wilt thou not lay aside thy veil?[Sobeidestarts, looks about her absent-mindedly.]Merchant(points to the glass).'Tis yonder.[Sobeidetakes no step, loosens mechanicallythe veil from her hair.]Lake in the GrunewaldLAKE IN THE GRUNEWALDMerchant.Here—in thy house—and just at first perhapsThou mayst lack much. This house, since mother's death,Has grown disused to serve a woman's needs.And our utensils here do not displayThe splendor and magnificence in whichI fain had seen thee framed, but yet for meScant beauty dwells in what all men may have:So from the stuffy air of chests and casketsThat, like the sandal-wood in sanctuary,Half took my breath, I had all these removedAnd placed there in thy chamber for thy service,Where something of my mother's presence still—Forgive me—seems to cling. I thought in thisTo show and teach thee something ... On some thingsThere are mute symbols deeply stamped, with whichThe air grows laden in our quiet hours,And fuses something with our consciousnessThat could not well be said, nor was to be.[Pause.]It hurts me when I see thee thus, benumbedBy all these overladen moments, thatScarce walk upright beneath their heavy burden.But let me say, all good things enter inOur souls in quiet unpretentious ways,And not with show and noise. One keeps expectingTo see Life suddenly appear somewhereOn the horizon, like a new domain,A country yet untrodden. Yet the distanceRemains unpeopled; slowly then our eyesPerceive its traces ling'ring here and yonder,And that it compasses, embraces us,And bears us, is in us, and nowhere fails us.The words I say can give thee little pleasure,Too much renunciation rings in them.But not to me, by Heaven! My sweet child,Not like a beggar do I feel before thee,(With a long look at her.)However fair thy youth's consummate gloryEnvelop thee from top to toe ... thou knowestNot much about my life, thou hast but seenA fragment of its shell, as dimly gleamingIn shadows through the op'nings of a hedge.I wish thine eye might pierce the heart of it:As fully as the earth beneath my feetHave I put from me all things low and common.Callst thou that easy, since I now am old?'Tis true, I've lost some friends by death ere this—And thou at most thy grandam—many friends,And those that live, where are they scattered now?To them was linked the long forgotten quiverOf nights of youth, those evening hours in whichVague fear with monstrous, sultry happinessWas mingled, and the perfume of young locksWith darkling breezes wafted from the stars.The glamor of the motley towns and cities,The distant purple haze—that now is gone,Nor could be found, though I should go to seek it;But here within me, when I call, there risesA something, rules my spirit, and I feelAs if it might in thee as well—[He changes his tone.]Knowst thou the day, on which thou needst must danceBefore thy father's guests? A smile unfadingDwelt on thy lips, than any string of pearlsMore fair, and sadder than my mother's smile,Which thou hast ne'er beheld. This is to blame:That smile and dance were interlaced, like wondrousFingers of dreamlike possibilities.Wouldst thou they ne'er had been, since they're to blame,My wife, that thou art standing here with me?Sobeide(in such a tone that her voice is heardto strike her teeth).Commandest thou that I should dance? If not,Commandest thou some other thing?Merchant.My wife,How wild thou speakest with me, and how strangely!Sobeide.Wild? Hard, perhaps: my fate is none too soft.Thou speakest as a good man speaks, then beSo good as not to speak with me today.I am thy chattel, take me as thy chattel,And let me, like a chattel, keep my thoughtsUnspoken, only uttered to myself![She weeps silently with compressed lips, herface turned toward the darkness.]Merchant.So many tears and in such silence. ThisIs not the shudder that relieves the anguishOf youth. Here there is deeper pain to quietThan inborn rigidness of timid spirits.Sobeide.Lord, shouldst thou waken in the night and findMe weeping thus whenas I seem to sleep,Then wake me, lest I do what thy good rightForbids me. For in dreams upon thy bedI shall be seeing then another manAnd longing for him; this were not becoming,And makes me shudder at myself to think it.Oh promise me that thou wilt then awake me![Pause. TheMerchantis silent; deep feelingdarkens his face.]No question who it is? Does that not matter?No? But thy face is gloomy and thou breathestWith effort? Then I will myself confess it:Thou hast beheld him at our house ere now,His name is Ganem—son of old Shalnassar,The carpet-dealer—and 'tis three years nowSince first I knew him. But since yesteryearI have not seen him more.This I have said, this last thing I reveal,Because I will permit no sedimentOf secrecy and lies to lurk within me.I care not thou shouldst know: I am no vesselSold off as pure, but lined with verdigrisTo eat its bottom out—and then becauseI wanted to be spared his frequent visitsIn this abode—for that were hard to bear.Merchant(threateningly, but soon choked by wrath and pain).Thou! Thou hast ... thou hast ...[He claps his hands to his face.]Sobeide.Thou weepest too, then, on thy wedding-day?And have I spoiled some dream for thee? Look hither:Thou sayst, I am so young, and this, and this—[Points to hair and cheeks.]Are young indeed, but weary is my spirit,So weary, that there is no word to tellHow weary and how aged before my time.We are one age, perhaps thou art the younger.In conversation once thou saidst to me,That almost all the years since I was bornHad passed for thee in sitting in thy gardensAnd in the quiet tower thou hast builded,To watch the stars from it. 'Twas on that dayIt first seemed possible to me, that thyAnd, more than that, my father's fond desireMight be ... fulfilled. For I supposed the airIn this thy house must have some lightness in it,So light, so burdenless!—And in our houseIt was so overladen with remembrance,The airy corpse of sleepless nights went floatingAll through it, and on all the walls there hungThe burden of those fondly cherished hopes,Once vivid, then rejected, long since faded.The glances of my parents rested everUpon me, and their whole existence.—Well,Too well I knew each quiver of an eyelash,And over all there was the constant pressureOf thy commanding will, that on my soulLay like a coverlet of heavy sleep.'Twas common, that I yielded at the last:I seek no other word. And yet the commonIs strong, and all our life is full of it.How could I thrust it down and trample on it,While I was floundering in it up to the neck?Merchant.So my desire lay like a cruel nightmareUpon thy breast! Then thou must surely hate me ...Sobeide.I hate thee not, I have not learned to hate,And only just began to learn to love.The lessons stopped, but I am fairly ableTo do such things as, with that smile thou knowest,To dance, with heart as heavy as the stones,To face each heavy day, each coming evilWith smiles: the utmost power of my youthThat smile consumed, but to the bitter endI wore it, and so here I stand with thee.Merchant.In this I see but shadowy connection.Sobeide.How I connect my being forced to smileAnd finally becoming wife to thee?Wilt thou know this? And must I tell thee all?Then knowst thou, since thou art rich, so littleOf life, and hast no eyes for aught but stars,And flowers in thy heated greenhouse? Listen:This is the cause: a poor man is my father,Not always poor, much worse: once rich, now poor,And many people's debtor, most of allThy debtor. And his starving spirit livedUpon my smile, as other people's heartsOn other lies. These last years, since thou camest,I knew my task; till then had been my schooling.Merchant.And so became my wife!As quick she would have grasped her pointed shearsAnd opened up a vein and with her bloodHave let her life run out into a bath,If that had been the price with which to purchaseHer father's freedom from his creditor!... Thus is a wish fulfilled!Sobeide.Be not distressed. This is the way of life.I am myself as in a waking dream.As one who, taken sick, no more arightCompares his thoughts, nor any more remembersHow on the day before he viewed a matter,Nor what he then had feared or had expected:He cannot look with eyes of yesterday ...So also when we reach the worser stagesOf that great illness: Life. I scarcely knowMyself how great my fear of many things,How much I longed for others, and I feel,When some things cross my mind, as if it wereAnother woman's fate, and not my own,Just some one that I know about, not I.I tell thee, I am bitter, but not evil:And if at first I was too wild for thee,There will be no deception in me later,When I shall sit at ease and watch thy gardeners.My head is tired out. I grow so dizzy,When I must keep two things within myselfThat fight against each other. Much too longHave I been forced to do this. Give me peace!Thou giv'st me this, and for that I am grateful.Call not this little: terrible in weaknessIs everything that grows on shifting sandsOf doubt. But here is perfect certainty.Merchant.And how of him?Sobeide.That too must not distress thee.'Twere hard to judge, had I concealed it from thee;I have revealed it now, so let it rest.Merchant.Thou art not free of him!Sobeide.So thinkest thou?When is one "free?" Things have no hold on us,Except we have in us the will to hold them.All that is past. [Gesture.]Merchant(after a pause).His love was like to thine?[Sobeidenods.]But then, why then, how has it come to passThat he was not the one—Sobeide.Why, we were poor!No, more than poor, thou knowst. His father, too.Poor too. Besides, a gloomy man, as hardAs mine was all too soft, and on him weighingAs mine on me. The whole much easierTo live through than to put in words. For yearsIt lasted. We were children when it started,Ere long as tired as foals, too early harnessedFor drawing heavy wagons in the harvest.Merchant.But let me tell thee, this cannot be trueAbout his father. I know old Shalnassar,The carpet-dealer. Well, he is a graybeard,And he who will may speak good of his name,But I will not. A wicked, bad old man!Sobeide.May be, all one. To him it is his father.I ne'er have seen him. Ganem sees him so.He calls him sick, is saddened when he speaksOf him. And therefore I have never seen him,That is, not since my childhood, when I sawHim now and then upon the window leaning.Merchant.But he's not poor, no, anything but poor!Sobeide(sure of her facts, sadly smiling).Thinkst thou I should be here?Merchant.And he?Sobeide.What, he?Merchant.He clearly made thee feelHe thought impossible, what he and thouHad wished for years and long held possible?Sobeide.Why, for it was impossible? ... and then"Had wished for years"—thou seest, all these mattersAre different, and the words we useAre different. At one time this has ripened,But to decay again. For there are momentsWith cheeks that burn like the eternal suns—When somewhere hovers mute an unconfessedConfession, somewhere vanishes in airThe echo of a call that never reachedIts utterance; here in me something whispers,"I yielded to him;" mark: in thought! "I yielded"—The following moment swallows everything,As night the lightning flash ... How all beganAnd ended? Well, in this wise: first I sealedMy lips, soon then set seal upon my eye-lids,And he—Merchant.Well, how was he?Sobeide.Why, very noble.As one who seeks to sully his own imageIn other eyes, to spare that other pain—Quite different, no longer kind as once—It was the greatest kindness, so to act—His spirit rent and full of mockery, thatPerhaps was bitterer to himself than me,Just like an actor oftentimes, so strangelyWith set intent. At other times againDiscoursing of the future, of the timeWhen I should give my hand—Merchant(vehemently).To me?Sobeide(coldly).When I should give my hand to any other;—Describing what he knew that I should neverEndure, if life should ever take that form.As little as himself would e'er have borne itA single hour, for he but made a show,Acquaint with me, and knowing it would costThe less of pain to wrench my heart from him,So soon as I had come to doubt his faith.'Twas too well acted, but what wealth of goodnessWas there.Merchant.The greatest goodness,if'twas reallyNaught but a pose assumed.Sobeide(passionately).I beg thee, husband,This one thing: ruin not our life together.As yet 'tis young and blind as tiny fledglings,A single speech like this might swiftly slay it!I shall not be an evil wife to thee:I mean that slowly I shall find, perhaps,In other things a little of that blissFor which I held out eager fingers, thinkingThere was a land quite full of it, both airAnd earth, and one might enter into it.I know by now thatIwas not to enter ...I shall be almost happy in that day,All longing, painless, shared 'twixt past and present,Like shining sunlight on the fresh green trees,And like an unburdened sky behind the gardenThe future: empty, yet quite full of light ...But we must give it time to grow:As yet confusion everywhere prevails.Thou must assist me, it must never happenThat with ill-chosen words thou link this presentToo strongly to the life which now is over.They must be parted by a wall of glass,As airtight and as rigid as in dreams.(At the window.)That evening must not come, that should discoverMe sitting at this window without thee:—Just not to be at home, not from the windowOf my long girlhood's chamber to look outInto the darkness, has a dangerous,Peculiar and confusing power, as ifI lay upon the open road, no man's possession,As fully mine as never in my dreams!A maiden's life is much more strictly ruledBy pressure of the air, than thou conceivest,To whom it seems most natural to be free.The evening ne'er must come, when I should thusStand here, with all the weight of heavy shadows,My parents' eyes, all, all behind me thrust,Involved in yon dark hangings at my back,And this brave landscape with the golden stars,The gentle breeze, the bushes, thus before me.(With growing agitation.)The evening ne'er must come, when I should seeAll this with eyes like these, to say to me:Here lies a road that shimmers in the moonlight:Before the gentle breeze the next light cloudletImpels to meet the moon, a man could runThat road unto its end, between the hedges,Then comes a cross-road, now a planted field,And then the shadow of the standing corn,At last a garden! There his hand would touchAt once a curtain, back of which is all:All kissing, laughing, all the happinessThis world can give promiscuously flungAbout like balls of golden wool, such blissThat but a drop of it on parchéd lipsSuffices to be lighter than a flame,To see no more of difficulty, norTo understand what men call ugliness!(Almost shrieking.)The evening ne'er must come, that with a thousandUnfettered tongues should cry to me: why not?Why hast thou never run in dark of nightThat road? Thy feet were young, thy breath sufficient:Why hast thou saved it, that thou mightst have plentyTo weep a thousand nights upon thy pillow?[She turns her back to the window, clutchesthe table, collapses and falls to her knees,and remains thus, her face pressed to thetable, her body shaken with weeping. Along pause.]Merchant.And if the first door I should open wide,The only locked one on this road of love?[He opens the small doorway leading intothe garden on the right; the moonlightenters.]Sobeide(still kneeling by the table).Art thou so cruel as, in this first hour,To make a silly pastime of my weeping!Art thou so fain to put thy scorn upon me?Art thou so proud of holding me securely?Merchant(with the utmost self-control).How much I could have wished that thou hadst learnedTo know me otherwise, but now there isNo time for that.Thy father, if 'tis this which so constrains thee,Thy father owes me nothing now, indeedWithin some days agreements have been madeBetween us twain, from which some little profitAnd so, I hope, a much belated gleamOf joyousness may come.[She has crept closer to him on her knees,listening.]So then thou mightest—Thou mayst, I mean to say, if it was thisThat lamed thee most, if in this—aliendwellingAgain thou feel the will to live, which thouHadst lost, if, as from heavy sleep aroused,Yet not awake, thou feel it is this portalThat leads thee out to pulsing, waking life—Then in the name of God and of the starsI give thee leave to go where'er thou wilt.Sobeide(still on her knees).What?Merchant.I do no more regard thee as my wifeThan any other maid who, for protectionFrom tempest or from robbers by the wayside,Had entered for a space into my house,And I renounce herewith my claim upon thee,Just as I have no valid right to any,Whom such a chance might cast beneath my roof.Sobeide.What sayest thou?Merchant.I say that thou art freeTo pass out through this door, and where thou wilt.Free as the wind, the butterfly, the water.Sobeide(half standing).To go?Merchant.To go.Sobeide.Where'er I will?Merchant.Where 'erThou wilt, and at what time thou wilt.Sobeide(still half dazed, now at the door).Now? Here?MerchantOr now, or later.Here, or otherwhere.Sobeide(doubtfully).But to my parents only?Merchant(in a more decided tone).Where thou wilt.Sobeide(laughing and Weeping at once).This dost thou then? O never in a dreamI ventured such a thought, in maddest dreamsI ne'er had crept to thee upon my knees[She falls on her knees before him.]With this request, lest I should see thy laughterUpon such madness ... yet thou doest it,Thou doest it! O thou! Thou good, good man![He raises her gently, she stands bewildered.]Merchant(turns away).When wilt thou go?Sobeide.This very instant, now!O be not angry, think not ill of me!Consider: can I tarry in thy house,A stranger's house this night? Must I not goAt once to him, since I belong to him?How may his property this night inhabitAn alien house, as it were masterless?Merchant(bitterly).Already his?Sobeide.Why sir, a proper womanIs never masterless: for from her fatherHer husband takes her, she belongs to him,Be he alive or resting in the earth.Her next and latest master—that is Death.Merchant.Then wilt thou not, at least till break of day,Return to rest at home?Sobeide.No, no, my friend.All that is past. My road, once and for all,Is not the common one, this hour dividesMe altogether from all maiden ways.So let me walk it to its very endIn this one night, that in a later dayAll this be like a dream, nor I have needTo feel ashamed.Merchant.Then go!Sobeide.I give thee pain?[Merchantturns away.]Permit a single draught from yonder goblet.Merchant.It was my mother's, take it to thyself.Sobeide.I cannot. Lord. But let me drink from it.[Drinks.]Merchant.Drain this, and never mayst thou need in lifeTo quench thy thirst with wine from any gobletLess pure than that.Sobeide.Farewell.Merchant.Farewell.[She is already on the threshold.]Hast thou no fear? Thou never yet hast walkedAlone. We dwell without the city wall.Sobeide.Dear friend, I feel above all weakling fear,And light my foot, as never in the daytime.[Exit.]Merchant(after following her long with his eyes, with agesture of pain).As if some plant were drawing quiet rootletsFrom out my heart, to take wing after her,And air were entering all the empty sockets![He steps away from the window.]Does she not really seem to me less fair,So hasty, so desirous to run thither,Where scarce she knows if any wait her coming!No: 'tis her youth that I must see aright;This is a part of all things beautiful,And all this haste becomes this creature justAs mute aspects become the fairest flowers.[Pause.]I think what I have done is of a partWith my conception of the world's great movement.I will not have one set of lofty thoughtsWhen I behold high up the circling stars,And others when a young girl stands before me.Whatthereis truth, must be so here as well,And I must say, if yonder wedded childCannot endure to harbor in her spiritTwo things, of which the one belies the other,Am I prepared to make my acts denyWhat I have learned through groping premonitionAnd reason from that monstrous principleThat towers upon the earth and strikes the stars?I call it Life, that monstrous thing, this tooIs life—and who might venture to divide them?And what is ripeness, if not recognizingThat men and stars have but one law to guide them?And so herein I see the hand of fate,That bids me live as lonely as before,And heirless—when I speak the last good-by—And with no loving hand in mine, to die.SCENE IIA wainscoted room inShalnassar'shouse. An ascending stairway, narrow and steep, in the right background; a descending one at the left. A gallery of open woodwork with openings, inner balconies, runs about the entire stage. Unshaded hanging lamps. Curtained doorways to the left and right. Against the left wall a low bench, farther to the rear a table and seats.OldShalnassarsits on the bench near the left doorway, wrapped in a cloak. Before him stands a young man, the impoverished merchant.Shalnass.Were I as rich as you regard me—trulyI am not so, quite far from that, my friend—I could not even then grant this postponement,Nay, really, friend, and solely for your sake:For too indulgent creditors, by Heaven,Are debtors' ruin.Debtor.Hear me now, Shalnassar!Shalnass.No more. I can hear nothing. Yea, my deafnessBut grows apace with all your talking. Go!Go home, I say: think how you may retrench.I know your house, 'tis overrun with vermin,I mean the servants. Curtail the expensesYour wife has caused: they are most unbecomingFor your position. What? I am not hereTo give you counsel. Home with you, I tell you.Debtor.I wanted to, my heart detains me here,This heart that swells with pain. Go home? To meThe very door of my own house is hateful.I cannot enter, but some creditorWould block my way.Shalnass.Well, what a fool you were.Go home and join your lovely wife, be off!Go home! Bring offspring into life. Then starve![He claps his hands. The Armenian slavecomes up the stairs.Shalnassarwhisperswith him, without heeding the other.]Debtor.Not fifty florins have I in the world.You spoke of servants? Aye, one withered croneTo carry water, that is all. And sheHow long? No wretch abandoned, fed with alms,Feels misery like mine: for I have knownThe sweets of wealth. Through every night I slept,Contentment round my head, and sweet was morning.But hush! she loves me still, and so my failureIs bright and golden. O, she is my wife!Shalnass.I beg you, go, the lamps will have to burnSo long as you are standing round. Go with him.Here are the keys.Debtor(overcoming his fear).A word, good Shalnassar!I had not wished to beg you for reprieve.Shalnass.What? Does my deafness cause me some illusion?Debtor.No, really.Shalnass.But?Debtor.But for another loan.Shalnass(furious).What do You want?Debtor.Not what I want, but must.Thou never hast beheld her, thou must see her!My heavy heart gives o'er its sullen beatingAnd leaps with joy, whene'er I look upon her.(With growing agitation.)All this must yet be altered. Her fair limbsAre for the cult of tenderness created,Not for the savage claws of desperation.She cannot go a-begging, with such hair.Her mouth is proud as it is sweet. O, fateIs trying to outwit me—but I scorn it—If thou couldst see her, old man—Shalnass.Iwillsee her!Tell her the man of years, upon whose goldHer husband young so much depends—now mark:The good old man, say, the decrepit gray-beard—Desired to see her. Tell her men of yearsAre childish, why should this one not be so?But still a call is little. Tell her this:It is almost a grave that she would visit,A grave just barely breathing. Will you do't?Debtor.I've heard it said that you adore your goldLike something sacred, and that next to thatYou love the countenance of anguished men,And looks that mirror forth the spirit's pain.But you are old, have sons, and so I thinkThese evil sayings false. And therefore IWill tell her this, and if perchance she asks me,"What thinkest thou?" then I will say, "My dearest,Peculiar, but not bad."—Farewell, but pray you,When your desire is granted, let not mine,Shalnassar, wait long for its due fulfilment.[TheDebtorand the Armenian slave exeuntdown the stairs.]Shalnass. (alone, rises, stretches, seems much taller now).A honeyed fool is that, a sweet-voiced babbler,"Hear, aged man!"—"I beg you, aged man!"I've heard men say his wife is beautiful,And has such fiery color in her hairThat fingers tumbling it feel heat and billowsAt once. If she comes not, then she shall learnTo sleep on naked straw....... 'Twere time to sleep.They say that convalescents need much sleep.But if I must be deaf, then I'll be deafTo wisdom such as this. Sleep is naught otherThan early death. I would enjoy my nightsTogether with the days still left to me.I will be generous, whenas I please:To Gülistane I Will give more this eveningThan she could dream. And this shall be my pretextTo have her change her room and take a chamberBoth larger and near mine. If she will do't,Her bath shall be the juice of violets, roses,Or pinks, and gold and amber she shall quaff,Until the roof-beams reel in dizzy madness.[He claps his hands, a slave comes. Exitleft, followed by slave.Gülistanecomesup the stairs, an old slave-woman behindher.Ganembends forward from a nicheabove, spiesGülistaneand comes downthe stairs.]Ganem(takes her by the hand).My dream, whence comest thou? So long I layTo wait for thee.[The old slave-woman mounts the stairs.]Gülistane.I? From my bath I comeAnd go now to my chamber.Ganem.How thou shinestFrom bathing.Gülistane.It was flowing, glowing silverOf moonlight.Ganem.Were I one of yonder trees,I would cast off my foliage with a quiver,And leap to thee! O were I master here!Gülistane.Aye, if thou wert! Thy father is quite well.He bade me dine alone with him this evening.Ganem.Accursèd skill, that roused this blood again,Which was already half coagulated.I saw him speaking with thee just this morning.What was it?Gülistane.I have told thee.Ganem.Speak, was that all? Thou liest, there was more!Gülistane.He asked me—Ganem.What? But hush, the walls have ears.[She whispers.]Beloved!While thou art speaking, ripes in me a plan,Most wonderful, note well, and based on this:He now is but the shadow of himself,And though he still stands threatening there, his feetAre clay. His wrath is thunder without lightning.And—mark me well—all this his lustfulnessIs naught but senile braggadocio.Gülistane.Well,What dost thou base on this?Ganem.The greatest hope.[He whispers.]Gülistane.But such a poison—Suppose there should be one of such a nature,To end the life, but leave the corpse unmarred—This poison none will sell thee.Ganem.Aye, no man,A woman will—Gülistane.For what reward?Ganem.For this,That, thinking I am wed, she also thinksTo call me husband—after.Gülistane.Who'll believe it?...Ganem.There long has been a woman who believes it.Gülistane.Thou liest: saidst thou not the plan was new?And now thou sayst there long has been a woman.Ganem.There has: I meshed her in this web of liesBefore I saw the goal. Today 'tis clear.Gülistane.Who is't?Ganem.The limping daughter of a poorOld pastrycook, who lives in the last alleyDown in the sailors' quarter.Gülistane.And her name?Ganem.What's in a name? Her eyes, with doglike fear,Clung to me when I passed, one of those facesThat lure me, since so greedily they drinkIn lies, and weave out of themselves such fancies.And so I oft would stand and talk to her.Lake in the GrunewaldLAKE IN THE GRUNEWALDFrom the Painting by Walter LeistikowGülistane.And who gives her the poison?Ganem.Why, her father,By keeping it where she can steal it from him.Gülistane.What? He a pastry-maker?Ganem.But quite skilful,And very poor—and yet not to be purchasedBy us at any price: he is of thoseWho secretly reject our holy books,And eat no food on which our shadow falls.I'll visit her, while thou art eating dinnerWith him.Gülistane.So each will have his part to play.Ganem.But mine shall end all further repetitionOf thine. Soon I return. Make some excuseTo leave him. If I found thee with him—Gülistane(puts her hand over his mouth).Hush!Ganem(overcome).How cool thy fingers are, and yet, how burnsThy blood within them, sorceress! Thou holdestMe captive in the deepest cell, and feedestMe e'er at midnight with thy kennels' leavings;Thou scourgest me, and in the dust I grovel.Gülistane.E'en so, and thou?Ganem(crushed by her look).And I?[Looks down at his feet.]My name is Ganem,Ganem, the slave of love.[He sinks before her, clasping her feet.]Gülistane.Go quickly, go!I hear thy father, go! I bid thee go!I will not have them find us here together.Ganem.I have a silly smile, quite meaningless,'Twould serve me well to look him in the face.[Gülistanegoes up the stairs. The Armenianslave comes from below.Ganemturnsto go out on the right.]Slave.Was Gülistane with thee?Ganem. [Shrugs his shoulders.]Slave.But thou wast speaking.Ganem.Aye, with my hound.Slave.Then she is doubtless here.[He goes up the stairs. The stage remainsempty awhile, thenShalnassarentersfrom the left with three slaves hearing vesselsand ornaments. He has everything setdown by the left wall, where there isa table with low seats.]Shalnass.Put this down here, this here. Now ye may serve.[He goes to the lowest step of the stairway.]Ah, convalescents, so they say, should seekThe sun. Well, here I stand,[Gülistanecomes down and he leads her tothe gifts.]And know no moreOf sickness, than that amber is its work,And pearls, when it resides in trees or oysters.My word, they both are here. And here are birds,Quite lifelike, woven into gleaming silk,If it be worth thy while to look at them.Gülistane.This is too much.Shalnass.Aye, for a pigeon-house,But scarcely for a chamber large enoughTo hold such rose-perfume as yonder vasesExhale, and yet not fill the air to stifling.Gülistane.O see, what wondrous vases!Shalnass.This is onyx,And that one Chrysophrase, beneath thy notice.Impenetrable they are called, but odorsCan pass their walls as they were rotten wood.Gülistane.How thank thee?[Shalnassardoes not understand.]Gülistane.How, I say, am I to thank thee?Shalnass.By squandering all this:This desk of sandal-wood and inlaid pearlUse stead of withered twigs on chilly nightsTo warm thy bath: watch how the flames will sparkle,With sweet perfume![A dog is heard to give tongue, then several.]Gülistane.What sheer and fragile lace! [Lifts it up.]Shalnass.Dead, lifeless stuff. I'll bring to thee a dwarf,Hath twenty tongues of beasts and men within him.Instead of apes and parrots I will give theeMost curious men, abortions of the treesThat marry with the air. They sing by night.Gülistane.Thou shalt have kisses.[The baying of the dogs grows stronger,seems nearer.]Shalnass.Say, do young loversGive better gifts?Gülistane.What wretched blunderersIn this great art, but what a master thou![The Armenian slave comes, plucksShalnassarby the sleeve, and whispers.]Shalnass.A maiden sayst thou? Doubtless 'tis a woman,But young? I do not understand.Gülistane.What maiden meanest thou. Beloved?Shalnass.None, none. I merely bade this slave "remain,"And thou misheardest. (To the slave.) Hithercome, speak softly.Slave.She is half dead with fear, for some highwaymanPursued her here, and then the dogs attacked herAnd pulled her down. All out of breath she asked me,"Is this Shalnassar's house, the carpet-dealer?"Shalnass.It is the wife of that sweet fool. He sent her.Be still. (He goes toGülistane, who is justputting a string of pearls about her throat.)O lovely! they're not worth their place.[He goes back to the slave.]Slave.She also speaks of Ganem.Shalnass.Of my son?All one. Say, is she fair?Slave.I thought so.Shalnass.What!Slave.But all deformed with fear.Gülistane.Some business?Shalnass(to her).None,But serving thee.[He puts out his hand to close the clasp ather neck, but fails.]Gülistane.Forbear!Shalnass(puts his hand to his eye).A little veinBurst in my eye. I must behold thee dance,To make the blood recede.Gülistane.A strange idea.Shalnass.Come, for my sake.Gülistane.Why, then I must put upMy hair.Shalnass.Then put it up. I cannot liveWhile thou delayest.[Gülistanegoes up the stairs.](To the slave.)Lead her here to me.Say only this: the one she seeks awaits her.Mark that: the one she seeks; no more.[He walks up and down; exit slave.]No being is so simple; no, I cannotBelieve there are such fools. Highwaymen, bosh!He sent her here, and all that contradicts itIs simply lies.I little thought that she would come tonight,But gold draws all this out of nothingness.I'll keep her if she pleases me: her husbandShall never see her face again. With fettersOf linked gold I'll deck her pretty ankles.I'll keep them both and make them both so tameThat they will swing like parrots in one ring.[The slave leadsSobeideup the stairs. Sheis agitated, her eyes staring, her hairdisheveled, the strings of pearls torn off.She no longer wears her veil.]Shalnass.O that my son might die for very wrath!Well, well, and how she trembles and dissembles.[He motions the slave out.]Sobeide(looks at him fearfully).Art thou Shalnassar?Shalnass.Yes. And has thy husband—Sobeide.My husband? Knowst thou that? Why, did I notJust now ... was it not just this very night?...What?... or dost thou surmise?Shalnass.Coquettish chatterMay do for youthful apes. But I am old,And know the power that I have over you.Sobeide.That power thou hast, but thou wilt not employ itTo do me hurt.Shalnass.No, by the eternal light!But I am not a maker of sweet sayings,Nor fond of talk.Deliberate flattery I put behind me:The mouth that sucks the sweetness of the fruitIs mute. And this is chiefly autumn's trade.Yea, though the spring may breathe a sweeter odor,Old autumn laughs at him.—Nay, look not soUpon my hand. Because 'tis full of veins,Rank weeds, in which the juice of life dries up.—O, it will seize thee yet and it can hold thee!What, pain so soon? I'll soothe it with a stringOf pearls, come, come![Tries to draw her away.]Sobeide(frees herself).Have mercy, thou, my poor enfeebled brainIs all deranged. Is it to me thou speakest?Speak, thou art surely drunken or wouldst mock me.Knowst thou then who I am? Oh yes, thou saidstMy husband. Yes, this was my wedding-day!Knowst thou it? When I stood with him alone,My husband, then it all came over me;I wept aloud, and when he asked me, thenI lifted up my voice against him, spokeTo him of Ganem, of thy son, and told himThe whole. I'll tell thee later how it was.Just now I know not. Only this: the doorHe opened for me, kindly, not in anger,And said to me I was no more his wife,And I might go where'er I would.—Then goAnd fetch me Ganem! Fetch him here for me!
Sleeping chamber in the house of the wealthyMerchant. To the rear an alcove with dark curtains. To the left a door, to the right a small door leading into the garden, and a window. Candles.
Enter theMerchantand his old Servant,BAHRAM.
Merchant.Speak, Bahram, gav'st thou heed unto my bride?
Servant.Heed, in what sense!
Merchant.She is not cheerful, Bahram.
Servant.She is a serious girl. And 'tis a momentThat sobers e'en the flightiest, remember.
Merchant.Not she alone: the more I bade them kindleLights upon lights, the heavier hung a cloudAbout this wedding-feast. They smiled like masks,And I could catch the dark or pitying glancesThey flung to one another; and her fatherWould oft subside into a dark reflection,From which he roused himself with laughter forced,Unnatural.
Servant.My Lord, our common clayEndureth none too well the quiet splendorOf hours like these. We are but little usedTo aught but dragging through our daily roundOf littleness. And on such high occasionsWe feel the quiet opening of a portalFrom which an unfamiliar, icy breathOur spirit chills, and warns us of the grave.As in a glass we then behold our ownForgotten likeness come into our vision,And easier 'twere to weep than to be merry.
Merchant.She tasted not a morsel that thou placedBefore her.
Servant.Lord, her modest maidenhoodWas like a noose about her throat; but yetShe ate some of the fruit.
Merchant.Yes, one small seed,I noticed that, 'twas a pomegranate seed.
Servant.Then too she suddenly bethought herselfThat wine, a blood-red flame in sparkling crystal,Before her stood, and raised the splendid gobletAnd drank as with a sudden firm resolveThe half of it, so that the color floodedHer cheeks, and deep she sighed as with relief.
Merchant.Methinks that was no happy resolution.So acts the man who would deceive himself,And veils his glance, because the road affrights him.
Servant.Vain torments these: this is but women's way.
Merchant(looks about the room, smiles).A mirror, too, I see thou hast provided.
Servant.Thine own command, the mirror is thy mother's,Brought hither from her chamber with the rest.And thou thyself didst bid me, just this one ...
Merchant.What, did I so? It was a moment, then,When I was shrewder than I am just now.Yes, yes, a youthful bride must have a mirror.
Servant.Now I will go to fetch your mother's gobletAnd bring the cooling evening drink.
Merchant.Ah yes,Go, my good Bahram, fetch the evening drink.
[ExitBAHRAM. ]
Thou mirror of my mother, dwells no glimmerIn thee of her sweet pallid smile, to riseAs from the dewy mirror of a well-spring?Her smile, the faintest, loveliest I have known,Was like the flutter of a tiny birdling,That sleeps its last upon the hollowed hand.
[Stands before the mirror.]
No, naught but glass. Too long it empty stood.Only a face that does not smile—my own.My Self, beheld with my own eyes, so vacantAs if one glass but mirrored forth another,Unconscious.—Oh for higher vision yet,For but one moment infinitely brief,To see how stands uponherspirit's mirrorMy image! Is't an old man she beholds?Am I as young as oft I deem myself,When in the silent night I lie and listenTo hear my blood surge through its winding course?Is it not being young, to have so littleOf rigidness or hardness in my nature?I feel as if my spirit, nursed and rearedOn nourishment so dreamlike, bloodless, thin,Were youthful still. How else should visit meThis faltering feeling, just as in my boyhood,This strange uneasiness of happiness,As if 'twould slip each moment from my handsAnd fade like shadows? Can the old feel this?No, old men take the world for something hardAnd dreamless; what their fingers grasp and hold,They hold. WhileIam even now a-quiverWith all this moment brings; no youthful monarchWere more intoxicated, when the breezesShould waft to him that cryptic word "possession."
[He nears the window.]
Ah, lovely stars, are ye out there as ever?From out of this unstable mortal bodyTo look upon your courses in your whirlingEternal orbits—that has been the foodThat bore with ease my years, until I thoughtI scarcely felt my feet upon the earth.And have I really withered, while my eyesClung to yon golden suns, that do not wither?And have I learned of all the quiet plants,And marked their parts and understood their lives,And how they differ when upon the mountains,Or when by running streams we find them growing,—Almost a new creation, yet at bottomA single species; and with confidenceCould say, this one does well, its food is pure,And lightly bears the burden of its leaves,But this through worthless soil and sultry vaporsHas thickened stems, and bloated, swollen leaves ...And more ... and of myself I can know nothing,And heavy scales are crusted on my eyes,Impeding judgment ...
[He hastily steps before the mirror again.]
Soulless tool!Not like some books and men caught unawares:Thou never canst reveal the hidden truthAs in a lightning flash.
Servant(returning).My master.
Merchant.Well?
Servant.The guests depart. The father of thy brideAnd others have been asking after thee.
Merchant.And what of her?
Servant.She takes leave of her parents.
[Merchantstands a moment with staringeyes, then goes out at the door to the leftwith long strides.Servantfollows him.The stage remains empty for a short time.Then theMerchantreënters, hearing acandelabrum which he places on the tablebeside the evening drink.Sobeideentersbehind him, led by her father and mother.All stop in the centre of the room, somewhatto the left, theMerchantslightly removedfrom the rest.Sobeidegently releasesherself. Her veil hangs down behind her.She wears a string of pearls in her hair,a larger one about her neck.]
Father.From much in life I have been forced to part.This is the hardest. My belovéd daughter,This is the day which I began to dreadWhen still I saw thee smiling in thy cradle,And which has been my nightmare o'er and o'er.
(To theMerchant. )
Forgive me. She is more to me than child.I give thee that for which I have no name,For every name comprises but a part—But she was everything to me!
Sobeide.Dear father,My mother will be with thee.
Mother(gently).Cross him not:He is quite right to overlook his wife.I have become a part of his own being,What strikes me, strikes him too; but what I doAffects him only as when right and leftOf his own body meet. Meanwhile, however,The soul remains through all its days a nursling,And reaches out for breasts more full of life,Farewell. Be no worse helpmeet than I was,And mayst thou be as happy too. This wordEmbraces all.
Sobeide.Embrace—that is the word;Till now my fate was in your own embraced,But now the life of this man standing hereSwings wide its gates, and in this single momentI breathe for once the blessed air of freedom:No longer yours, and still not his as yet.I beg you, go; for this unwonted thing,As new to me as wine, has greater power,And makes me view my life and his and yoursWith other eyes than were perhaps befitting.
(With a forced smile.)
I beg you, look not in such wonderment:Such notions oft go flitting through my head,Nor dream nor yet reality. Ye know,As child I was much worse. And then the danceWhich I invented, is't not such a thing:Wherein from torchlight and the black of nightI made myself a shifting, drifting palace,From which I then emerged, as do the queensOf fire and ocean in the fairy-tales.
[TheMotherhas meanwhile thrown theFATHER a glance and has noiselessly goneto the door. Noiselessly the FATHER hasfollowed her. Now they stand with claspedhands in the doorway, to vanish the nextmoment.]
Ye go so softly? What? And are ye gone?
[She turns and stands silent, her eyes castdown.]
Merchant(caresses her with a long look, then goes to therear, but stops again irresolute).Wilt thou not lay aside thy veil?
[Sobeidestarts, looks about her absent-mindedly.]
Merchant(points to the glass).'Tis yonder.
[Sobeidetakes no step, loosens mechanicallythe veil from her hair.]
Lake in the Grunewald
LAKE IN THE GRUNEWALD
Merchant.Here—in thy house—and just at first perhapsThou mayst lack much. This house, since mother's death,Has grown disused to serve a woman's needs.And our utensils here do not displayThe splendor and magnificence in whichI fain had seen thee framed, but yet for meScant beauty dwells in what all men may have:So from the stuffy air of chests and casketsThat, like the sandal-wood in sanctuary,Half took my breath, I had all these removedAnd placed there in thy chamber for thy service,Where something of my mother's presence still—Forgive me—seems to cling. I thought in thisTo show and teach thee something ... On some thingsThere are mute symbols deeply stamped, with whichThe air grows laden in our quiet hours,And fuses something with our consciousnessThat could not well be said, nor was to be.
[Pause.]
It hurts me when I see thee thus, benumbedBy all these overladen moments, thatScarce walk upright beneath their heavy burden.But let me say, all good things enter inOur souls in quiet unpretentious ways,And not with show and noise. One keeps expectingTo see Life suddenly appear somewhereOn the horizon, like a new domain,A country yet untrodden. Yet the distanceRemains unpeopled; slowly then our eyesPerceive its traces ling'ring here and yonder,And that it compasses, embraces us,And bears us, is in us, and nowhere fails us.The words I say can give thee little pleasure,Too much renunciation rings in them.But not to me, by Heaven! My sweet child,Not like a beggar do I feel before thee,
(With a long look at her.)
However fair thy youth's consummate gloryEnvelop thee from top to toe ... thou knowestNot much about my life, thou hast but seenA fragment of its shell, as dimly gleamingIn shadows through the op'nings of a hedge.I wish thine eye might pierce the heart of it:As fully as the earth beneath my feetHave I put from me all things low and common.Callst thou that easy, since I now am old?'Tis true, I've lost some friends by death ere this—And thou at most thy grandam—many friends,And those that live, where are they scattered now?To them was linked the long forgotten quiverOf nights of youth, those evening hours in whichVague fear with monstrous, sultry happinessWas mingled, and the perfume of young locksWith darkling breezes wafted from the stars.
The glamor of the motley towns and cities,The distant purple haze—that now is gone,Nor could be found, though I should go to seek it;But here within me, when I call, there risesA something, rules my spirit, and I feelAs if it might in thee as well—
[He changes his tone.]
Knowst thou the day, on which thou needst must danceBefore thy father's guests? A smile unfadingDwelt on thy lips, than any string of pearlsMore fair, and sadder than my mother's smile,Which thou hast ne'er beheld. This is to blame:That smile and dance were interlaced, like wondrousFingers of dreamlike possibilities.Wouldst thou they ne'er had been, since they're to blame,My wife, that thou art standing here with me?
Sobeide(in such a tone that her voice is heardto strike her teeth).Commandest thou that I should dance? If not,Commandest thou some other thing?
Merchant.My wife,How wild thou speakest with me, and how strangely!
Sobeide.Wild? Hard, perhaps: my fate is none too soft.Thou speakest as a good man speaks, then beSo good as not to speak with me today.I am thy chattel, take me as thy chattel,And let me, like a chattel, keep my thoughtsUnspoken, only uttered to myself!
[She weeps silently with compressed lips, herface turned toward the darkness.]
Merchant.So many tears and in such silence. ThisIs not the shudder that relieves the anguishOf youth. Here there is deeper pain to quietThan inborn rigidness of timid spirits.
Sobeide.Lord, shouldst thou waken in the night and findMe weeping thus whenas I seem to sleep,Then wake me, lest I do what thy good rightForbids me. For in dreams upon thy bedI shall be seeing then another manAnd longing for him; this were not becoming,And makes me shudder at myself to think it.Oh promise me that thou wilt then awake me!
[Pause. TheMerchantis silent; deep feelingdarkens his face.]
No question who it is? Does that not matter?No? But thy face is gloomy and thou breathestWith effort? Then I will myself confess it:Thou hast beheld him at our house ere now,His name is Ganem—son of old Shalnassar,The carpet-dealer—and 'tis three years nowSince first I knew him. But since yesteryearI have not seen him more.This I have said, this last thing I reveal,Because I will permit no sedimentOf secrecy and lies to lurk within me.I care not thou shouldst know: I am no vesselSold off as pure, but lined with verdigrisTo eat its bottom out—and then becauseI wanted to be spared his frequent visitsIn this abode—for that were hard to bear.
Merchant(threateningly, but soon choked by wrath and pain).Thou! Thou hast ... thou hast ...
[He claps his hands to his face.]
Sobeide.Thou weepest too, then, on thy wedding-day?And have I spoiled some dream for thee? Look hither:Thou sayst, I am so young, and this, and this—
[Points to hair and cheeks.]
Are young indeed, but weary is my spirit,So weary, that there is no word to tellHow weary and how aged before my time.We are one age, perhaps thou art the younger.In conversation once thou saidst to me,That almost all the years since I was bornHad passed for thee in sitting in thy gardensAnd in the quiet tower thou hast builded,To watch the stars from it. 'Twas on that dayIt first seemed possible to me, that thyAnd, more than that, my father's fond desireMight be ... fulfilled. For I supposed the airIn this thy house must have some lightness in it,So light, so burdenless!—And in our houseIt was so overladen with remembrance,The airy corpse of sleepless nights went floatingAll through it, and on all the walls there hungThe burden of those fondly cherished hopes,Once vivid, then rejected, long since faded.The glances of my parents rested everUpon me, and their whole existence.—Well,Too well I knew each quiver of an eyelash,And over all there was the constant pressureOf thy commanding will, that on my soulLay like a coverlet of heavy sleep.'Twas common, that I yielded at the last:I seek no other word. And yet the commonIs strong, and all our life is full of it.How could I thrust it down and trample on it,While I was floundering in it up to the neck?
Merchant.So my desire lay like a cruel nightmareUpon thy breast! Then thou must surely hate me ...
Sobeide.I hate thee not, I have not learned to hate,And only just began to learn to love.The lessons stopped, but I am fairly ableTo do such things as, with that smile thou knowest,To dance, with heart as heavy as the stones,To face each heavy day, each coming evilWith smiles: the utmost power of my youthThat smile consumed, but to the bitter endI wore it, and so here I stand with thee.
Merchant.In this I see but shadowy connection.
Sobeide.How I connect my being forced to smileAnd finally becoming wife to thee?Wilt thou know this? And must I tell thee all?Then knowst thou, since thou art rich, so littleOf life, and hast no eyes for aught but stars,And flowers in thy heated greenhouse? Listen:This is the cause: a poor man is my father,Not always poor, much worse: once rich, now poor,And many people's debtor, most of allThy debtor. And his starving spirit livedUpon my smile, as other people's heartsOn other lies. These last years, since thou camest,I knew my task; till then had been my schooling.
Merchant.And so became my wife!As quick she would have grasped her pointed shearsAnd opened up a vein and with her bloodHave let her life run out into a bath,If that had been the price with which to purchaseHer father's freedom from his creditor!... Thus is a wish fulfilled!
Sobeide.Be not distressed. This is the way of life.I am myself as in a waking dream.As one who, taken sick, no more arightCompares his thoughts, nor any more remembersHow on the day before he viewed a matter,Nor what he then had feared or had expected:He cannot look with eyes of yesterday ...So also when we reach the worser stagesOf that great illness: Life. I scarcely knowMyself how great my fear of many things,How much I longed for others, and I feel,When some things cross my mind, as if it wereAnother woman's fate, and not my own,Just some one that I know about, not I.I tell thee, I am bitter, but not evil:And if at first I was too wild for thee,There will be no deception in me later,When I shall sit at ease and watch thy gardeners.My head is tired out. I grow so dizzy,When I must keep two things within myselfThat fight against each other. Much too longHave I been forced to do this. Give me peace!Thou giv'st me this, and for that I am grateful.Call not this little: terrible in weaknessIs everything that grows on shifting sandsOf doubt. But here is perfect certainty.
Merchant.And how of him?
Sobeide.That too must not distress thee.'Twere hard to judge, had I concealed it from thee;I have revealed it now, so let it rest.
Merchant.Thou art not free of him!
Sobeide.So thinkest thou?When is one "free?" Things have no hold on us,Except we have in us the will to hold them.All that is past. [Gesture.]
Merchant(after a pause).His love was like to thine?
[Sobeidenods.]
But then, why then, how has it come to passThat he was not the one—
Sobeide.Why, we were poor!No, more than poor, thou knowst. His father, too.Poor too. Besides, a gloomy man, as hardAs mine was all too soft, and on him weighingAs mine on me. The whole much easierTo live through than to put in words. For yearsIt lasted. We were children when it started,Ere long as tired as foals, too early harnessedFor drawing heavy wagons in the harvest.
Merchant.But let me tell thee, this cannot be trueAbout his father. I know old Shalnassar,The carpet-dealer. Well, he is a graybeard,And he who will may speak good of his name,But I will not. A wicked, bad old man!
Sobeide.May be, all one. To him it is his father.I ne'er have seen him. Ganem sees him so.He calls him sick, is saddened when he speaksOf him. And therefore I have never seen him,That is, not since my childhood, when I sawHim now and then upon the window leaning.
Merchant.But he's not poor, no, anything but poor!
Sobeide(sure of her facts, sadly smiling).Thinkst thou I should be here?
Merchant.And he?
Sobeide.What, he?
Merchant.He clearly made thee feelHe thought impossible, what he and thouHad wished for years and long held possible?
Sobeide.Why, for it was impossible? ... and then"Had wished for years"—thou seest, all these mattersAre different, and the words we useAre different. At one time this has ripened,But to decay again. For there are momentsWith cheeks that burn like the eternal suns—When somewhere hovers mute an unconfessedConfession, somewhere vanishes in airThe echo of a call that never reachedIts utterance; here in me something whispers,"I yielded to him;" mark: in thought! "I yielded"—The following moment swallows everything,As night the lightning flash ... How all beganAnd ended? Well, in this wise: first I sealedMy lips, soon then set seal upon my eye-lids,And he—
Merchant.Well, how was he?
Sobeide.Why, very noble.As one who seeks to sully his own imageIn other eyes, to spare that other pain—Quite different, no longer kind as once—It was the greatest kindness, so to act—His spirit rent and full of mockery, thatPerhaps was bitterer to himself than me,Just like an actor oftentimes, so strangelyWith set intent. At other times againDiscoursing of the future, of the timeWhen I should give my hand—
Merchant(vehemently).To me?
Sobeide(coldly).When I should give my hand to any other;—Describing what he knew that I should neverEndure, if life should ever take that form.As little as himself would e'er have borne itA single hour, for he but made a show,Acquaint with me, and knowing it would costThe less of pain to wrench my heart from him,So soon as I had come to doubt his faith.
'Twas too well acted, but what wealth of goodnessWas there.
Merchant.The greatest goodness,if'twas reallyNaught but a pose assumed.
Sobeide(passionately).I beg thee, husband,This one thing: ruin not our life together.As yet 'tis young and blind as tiny fledglings,A single speech like this might swiftly slay it!I shall not be an evil wife to thee:I mean that slowly I shall find, perhaps,In other things a little of that blissFor which I held out eager fingers, thinkingThere was a land quite full of it, both airAnd earth, and one might enter into it.I know by now thatIwas not to enter ...I shall be almost happy in that day,All longing, painless, shared 'twixt past and present,Like shining sunlight on the fresh green trees,And like an unburdened sky behind the gardenThe future: empty, yet quite full of light ...But we must give it time to grow:As yet confusion everywhere prevails.Thou must assist me, it must never happenThat with ill-chosen words thou link this presentToo strongly to the life which now is over.They must be parted by a wall of glass,As airtight and as rigid as in dreams.
(At the window.)
That evening must not come, that should discoverMe sitting at this window without thee:—Just not to be at home, not from the windowOf my long girlhood's chamber to look outInto the darkness, has a dangerous,Peculiar and confusing power, as ifI lay upon the open road, no man's possession,As fully mine as never in my dreams!A maiden's life is much more strictly ruledBy pressure of the air, than thou conceivest,To whom it seems most natural to be free.The evening ne'er must come, when I should thusStand here, with all the weight of heavy shadows,My parents' eyes, all, all behind me thrust,Involved in yon dark hangings at my back,And this brave landscape with the golden stars,The gentle breeze, the bushes, thus before me.
(With growing agitation.)
The evening ne'er must come, when I should seeAll this with eyes like these, to say to me:Here lies a road that shimmers in the moonlight:Before the gentle breeze the next light cloudletImpels to meet the moon, a man could runThat road unto its end, between the hedges,Then comes a cross-road, now a planted field,And then the shadow of the standing corn,At last a garden! There his hand would touchAt once a curtain, back of which is all:All kissing, laughing, all the happinessThis world can give promiscuously flungAbout like balls of golden wool, such blissThat but a drop of it on parchéd lipsSuffices to be lighter than a flame,To see no more of difficulty, norTo understand what men call ugliness!
(Almost shrieking.)
The evening ne'er must come, that with a thousandUnfettered tongues should cry to me: why not?Why hast thou never run in dark of nightThat road? Thy feet were young, thy breath sufficient:Why hast thou saved it, that thou mightst have plentyTo weep a thousand nights upon thy pillow?
[She turns her back to the window, clutchesthe table, collapses and falls to her knees,and remains thus, her face pressed to thetable, her body shaken with weeping. Along pause.]
Merchant.And if the first door I should open wide,The only locked one on this road of love?
[He opens the small doorway leading intothe garden on the right; the moonlightenters.]
Sobeide(still kneeling by the table).Art thou so cruel as, in this first hour,To make a silly pastime of my weeping!Art thou so fain to put thy scorn upon me?Art thou so proud of holding me securely?
Merchant(with the utmost self-control).How much I could have wished that thou hadst learnedTo know me otherwise, but now there isNo time for that.Thy father, if 'tis this which so constrains thee,Thy father owes me nothing now, indeedWithin some days agreements have been madeBetween us twain, from which some little profitAnd so, I hope, a much belated gleamOf joyousness may come.
[She has crept closer to him on her knees,listening.]
So then thou mightest—Thou mayst, I mean to say, if it was thisThat lamed thee most, if in this—aliendwellingAgain thou feel the will to live, which thouHadst lost, if, as from heavy sleep aroused,Yet not awake, thou feel it is this portalThat leads thee out to pulsing, waking life—Then in the name of God and of the starsI give thee leave to go where'er thou wilt.
Sobeide(still on her knees).What?
Merchant.I do no more regard thee as my wifeThan any other maid who, for protectionFrom tempest or from robbers by the wayside,Had entered for a space into my house,And I renounce herewith my claim upon thee,Just as I have no valid right to any,Whom such a chance might cast beneath my roof.
Sobeide.What sayest thou?
Merchant.I say that thou art freeTo pass out through this door, and where thou wilt.Free as the wind, the butterfly, the water.
Sobeide(half standing).To go?
Merchant.To go.
Sobeide.Where'er I will?
Merchant.Where 'erThou wilt, and at what time thou wilt.
Sobeide(still half dazed, now at the door).Now? Here?
MerchantOr now, or later.Here, or otherwhere.
Sobeide(doubtfully).But to my parents only?
Merchant(in a more decided tone).Where thou wilt.
Sobeide(laughing and Weeping at once).This dost thou then? O never in a dreamI ventured such a thought, in maddest dreamsI ne'er had crept to thee upon my knees
[She falls on her knees before him.]
With this request, lest I should see thy laughterUpon such madness ... yet thou doest it,Thou doest it! O thou! Thou good, good man!
[He raises her gently, she stands bewildered.]
Merchant(turns away).When wilt thou go?
Sobeide.This very instant, now!O be not angry, think not ill of me!Consider: can I tarry in thy house,A stranger's house this night? Must I not goAt once to him, since I belong to him?How may his property this night inhabitAn alien house, as it were masterless?
Merchant(bitterly).Already his?
Sobeide.Why sir, a proper womanIs never masterless: for from her fatherHer husband takes her, she belongs to him,Be he alive or resting in the earth.Her next and latest master—that is Death.
Merchant.Then wilt thou not, at least till break of day,Return to rest at home?
Sobeide.No, no, my friend.All that is past. My road, once and for all,Is not the common one, this hour dividesMe altogether from all maiden ways.So let me walk it to its very endIn this one night, that in a later dayAll this be like a dream, nor I have needTo feel ashamed.
Merchant.Then go!
Sobeide.I give thee pain?
[Merchantturns away.]
Permit a single draught from yonder goblet.
Merchant.It was my mother's, take it to thyself.
Sobeide.I cannot. Lord. But let me drink from it.
[Drinks.]
Merchant.Drain this, and never mayst thou need in lifeTo quench thy thirst with wine from any gobletLess pure than that.
Sobeide.Farewell.
Merchant.Farewell.
[She is already on the threshold.]
Hast thou no fear? Thou never yet hast walkedAlone. We dwell without the city wall.
Sobeide.Dear friend, I feel above all weakling fear,And light my foot, as never in the daytime.
[Exit.]
Merchant(after following her long with his eyes, with agesture of pain).As if some plant were drawing quiet rootletsFrom out my heart, to take wing after her,And air were entering all the empty sockets!
[He steps away from the window.]
Does she not really seem to me less fair,So hasty, so desirous to run thither,Where scarce she knows if any wait her coming!No: 'tis her youth that I must see aright;This is a part of all things beautiful,And all this haste becomes this creature justAs mute aspects become the fairest flowers.
[Pause.]
I think what I have done is of a partWith my conception of the world's great movement.I will not have one set of lofty thoughtsWhen I behold high up the circling stars,And others when a young girl stands before me.Whatthereis truth, must be so here as well,And I must say, if yonder wedded childCannot endure to harbor in her spiritTwo things, of which the one belies the other,Am I prepared to make my acts denyWhat I have learned through groping premonitionAnd reason from that monstrous principleThat towers upon the earth and strikes the stars?I call it Life, that monstrous thing, this tooIs life—and who might venture to divide them?And what is ripeness, if not recognizingThat men and stars have but one law to guide them?And so herein I see the hand of fate,That bids me live as lonely as before,And heirless—when I speak the last good-by—And with no loving hand in mine, to die.
A wainscoted room inShalnassar'shouse. An ascending stairway, narrow and steep, in the right background; a descending one at the left. A gallery of open woodwork with openings, inner balconies, runs about the entire stage. Unshaded hanging lamps. Curtained doorways to the left and right. Against the left wall a low bench, farther to the rear a table and seats.
OldShalnassarsits on the bench near the left doorway, wrapped in a cloak. Before him stands a young man, the impoverished merchant.
Shalnass.Were I as rich as you regard me—trulyI am not so, quite far from that, my friend—I could not even then grant this postponement,Nay, really, friend, and solely for your sake:For too indulgent creditors, by Heaven,Are debtors' ruin.
Debtor.Hear me now, Shalnassar!
Shalnass.No more. I can hear nothing. Yea, my deafnessBut grows apace with all your talking. Go!Go home, I say: think how you may retrench.I know your house, 'tis overrun with vermin,I mean the servants. Curtail the expensesYour wife has caused: they are most unbecomingFor your position. What? I am not hereTo give you counsel. Home with you, I tell you.
Debtor.I wanted to, my heart detains me here,This heart that swells with pain. Go home? To meThe very door of my own house is hateful.I cannot enter, but some creditorWould block my way.
Shalnass.Well, what a fool you were.Go home and join your lovely wife, be off!Go home! Bring offspring into life. Then starve!
[He claps his hands. The Armenian slavecomes up the stairs.Shalnassarwhisperswith him, without heeding the other.]
Debtor.Not fifty florins have I in the world.You spoke of servants? Aye, one withered croneTo carry water, that is all. And sheHow long? No wretch abandoned, fed with alms,Feels misery like mine: for I have knownThe sweets of wealth. Through every night I slept,Contentment round my head, and sweet was morning.But hush! she loves me still, and so my failureIs bright and golden. O, she is my wife!
Shalnass.I beg you, go, the lamps will have to burnSo long as you are standing round. Go with him.Here are the keys.
Debtor(overcoming his fear).A word, good Shalnassar!I had not wished to beg you for reprieve.
Shalnass.What? Does my deafness cause me some illusion?
Debtor.No, really.
Shalnass.But?
Debtor.But for another loan.
Shalnass(furious).What do You want?
Debtor.Not what I want, but must.Thou never hast beheld her, thou must see her!My heavy heart gives o'er its sullen beatingAnd leaps with joy, whene'er I look upon her.(With growing agitation.)All this must yet be altered. Her fair limbsAre for the cult of tenderness created,Not for the savage claws of desperation.She cannot go a-begging, with such hair.Her mouth is proud as it is sweet. O, fateIs trying to outwit me—but I scorn it—If thou couldst see her, old man—
Shalnass.Iwillsee her!Tell her the man of years, upon whose goldHer husband young so much depends—now mark:The good old man, say, the decrepit gray-beard—Desired to see her. Tell her men of yearsAre childish, why should this one not be so?But still a call is little. Tell her this:It is almost a grave that she would visit,A grave just barely breathing. Will you do't?
Debtor.I've heard it said that you adore your goldLike something sacred, and that next to thatYou love the countenance of anguished men,And looks that mirror forth the spirit's pain.But you are old, have sons, and so I thinkThese evil sayings false. And therefore IWill tell her this, and if perchance she asks me,"What thinkest thou?" then I will say, "My dearest,Peculiar, but not bad."—Farewell, but pray you,When your desire is granted, let not mine,Shalnassar, wait long for its due fulfilment.
[TheDebtorand the Armenian slave exeuntdown the stairs.]
Shalnass. (alone, rises, stretches, seems much taller now).A honeyed fool is that, a sweet-voiced babbler,"Hear, aged man!"—"I beg you, aged man!"I've heard men say his wife is beautiful,And has such fiery color in her hairThat fingers tumbling it feel heat and billowsAt once. If she comes not, then she shall learnTo sleep on naked straw....... 'Twere time to sleep.They say that convalescents need much sleep.But if I must be deaf, then I'll be deafTo wisdom such as this. Sleep is naught otherThan early death. I would enjoy my nightsTogether with the days still left to me.I will be generous, whenas I please:To Gülistane I Will give more this eveningThan she could dream. And this shall be my pretextTo have her change her room and take a chamberBoth larger and near mine. If she will do't,Her bath shall be the juice of violets, roses,Or pinks, and gold and amber she shall quaff,Until the roof-beams reel in dizzy madness.
[He claps his hands, a slave comes. Exitleft, followed by slave.Gülistanecomesup the stairs, an old slave-woman behindher.Ganembends forward from a nicheabove, spiesGülistaneand comes downthe stairs.]
Ganem(takes her by the hand).My dream, whence comest thou? So long I layTo wait for thee.
[The old slave-woman mounts the stairs.]
Gülistane.I? From my bath I comeAnd go now to my chamber.
Ganem.How thou shinestFrom bathing.
Gülistane.It was flowing, glowing silverOf moonlight.
Ganem.Were I one of yonder trees,I would cast off my foliage with a quiver,And leap to thee! O were I master here!
Gülistane.Aye, if thou wert! Thy father is quite well.He bade me dine alone with him this evening.
Ganem.Accursèd skill, that roused this blood again,Which was already half coagulated.I saw him speaking with thee just this morning.What was it?
Gülistane.I have told thee.
Ganem.Speak, was that all? Thou liest, there was more!
Gülistane.He asked me—
Ganem.What? But hush, the walls have ears.
[She whispers.]
Beloved!While thou art speaking, ripes in me a plan,Most wonderful, note well, and based on this:He now is but the shadow of himself,And though he still stands threatening there, his feetAre clay. His wrath is thunder without lightning.And—mark me well—all this his lustfulnessIs naught but senile braggadocio.
Gülistane.Well,What dost thou base on this?
Ganem.The greatest hope.
[He whispers.]
Gülistane.But such a poison—Suppose there should be one of such a nature,To end the life, but leave the corpse unmarred—This poison none will sell thee.
Ganem.Aye, no man,A woman will—
Gülistane.For what reward?
Ganem.For this,That, thinking I am wed, she also thinksTo call me husband—after.
Gülistane.Who'll believe it?...
Ganem.There long has been a woman who believes it.
Gülistane.Thou liest: saidst thou not the plan was new?And now thou sayst there long has been a woman.
Ganem.There has: I meshed her in this web of liesBefore I saw the goal. Today 'tis clear.
Gülistane.Who is't?
Ganem.The limping daughter of a poorOld pastrycook, who lives in the last alleyDown in the sailors' quarter.
Gülistane.And her name?
Ganem.What's in a name? Her eyes, with doglike fear,Clung to me when I passed, one of those facesThat lure me, since so greedily they drinkIn lies, and weave out of themselves such fancies.And so I oft would stand and talk to her.
Lake in the Grunewald
LAKE IN THE GRUNEWALD
From the Painting by Walter Leistikow
Gülistane.And who gives her the poison?
Ganem.Why, her father,By keeping it where she can steal it from him.
Gülistane.What? He a pastry-maker?
Ganem.But quite skilful,And very poor—and yet not to be purchasedBy us at any price: he is of thoseWho secretly reject our holy books,And eat no food on which our shadow falls.I'll visit her, while thou art eating dinnerWith him.
Gülistane.So each will have his part to play.
Ganem.But mine shall end all further repetitionOf thine. Soon I return. Make some excuseTo leave him. If I found thee with him—
Gülistane(puts her hand over his mouth).Hush!
Ganem(overcome).How cool thy fingers are, and yet, how burnsThy blood within them, sorceress! Thou holdestMe captive in the deepest cell, and feedestMe e'er at midnight with thy kennels' leavings;Thou scourgest me, and in the dust I grovel.
Gülistane.E'en so, and thou?
Ganem(crushed by her look).And I?
[Looks down at his feet.]
My name is Ganem,
Ganem, the slave of love.
[He sinks before her, clasping her feet.]
Gülistane.Go quickly, go!I hear thy father, go! I bid thee go!I will not have them find us here together.
Ganem.I have a silly smile, quite meaningless,'Twould serve me well to look him in the face.
[Gülistanegoes up the stairs. The Armenianslave comes from below.Ganemturnsto go out on the right.]
Slave.Was Gülistane with thee?
Ganem. [Shrugs his shoulders.]
Slave.But thou wast speaking.
Ganem.Aye, with my hound.
Slave.Then she is doubtless here.
[He goes up the stairs. The stage remainsempty awhile, thenShalnassarentersfrom the left with three slaves hearing vesselsand ornaments. He has everything setdown by the left wall, where there isa table with low seats.]
Shalnass.Put this down here, this here. Now ye may serve.
[He goes to the lowest step of the stairway.]
Ah, convalescents, so they say, should seekThe sun. Well, here I stand,
[Gülistanecomes down and he leads her tothe gifts.]
And know no moreOf sickness, than that amber is its work,And pearls, when it resides in trees or oysters.My word, they both are here. And here are birds,Quite lifelike, woven into gleaming silk,If it be worth thy while to look at them.
Gülistane.This is too much.
Shalnass.Aye, for a pigeon-house,But scarcely for a chamber large enoughTo hold such rose-perfume as yonder vasesExhale, and yet not fill the air to stifling.
Gülistane.O see, what wondrous vases!
Shalnass.This is onyx,And that one Chrysophrase, beneath thy notice.Impenetrable they are called, but odorsCan pass their walls as they were rotten wood.
Gülistane.How thank thee?
[Shalnassardoes not understand.]
Gülistane.How, I say, am I to thank thee?
Shalnass.By squandering all this:This desk of sandal-wood and inlaid pearlUse stead of withered twigs on chilly nightsTo warm thy bath: watch how the flames will sparkle,With sweet perfume!
[A dog is heard to give tongue, then several.]
Gülistane.What sheer and fragile lace! [Lifts it up.]
Shalnass.Dead, lifeless stuff. I'll bring to thee a dwarf,Hath twenty tongues of beasts and men within him.Instead of apes and parrots I will give theeMost curious men, abortions of the treesThat marry with the air. They sing by night.
Gülistane.Thou shalt have kisses.
[The baying of the dogs grows stronger,seems nearer.]
Shalnass.Say, do young loversGive better gifts?
Gülistane.What wretched blunderersIn this great art, but what a master thou!
[The Armenian slave comes, plucksShalnassarby the sleeve, and whispers.]
Shalnass.A maiden sayst thou? Doubtless 'tis a woman,But young? I do not understand.
Gülistane.What maiden meanest thou. Beloved?
Shalnass.None, none. I merely bade this slave "remain,"And thou misheardest. (To the slave.) Hithercome, speak softly.
Slave.She is half dead with fear, for some highwaymanPursued her here, and then the dogs attacked herAnd pulled her down. All out of breath she asked me,"Is this Shalnassar's house, the carpet-dealer?"
Shalnass.It is the wife of that sweet fool. He sent her.Be still. (He goes toGülistane, who is justputting a string of pearls about her throat.)O lovely! they're not worth their place.
[He goes back to the slave.]
Slave.She also speaks of Ganem.
Shalnass.Of my son?All one. Say, is she fair?
Slave.I thought so.
Shalnass.What!
Slave.But all deformed with fear.
Gülistane.Some business?
Shalnass(to her).None,But serving thee.
[He puts out his hand to close the clasp ather neck, but fails.]
Gülistane.Forbear!
Shalnass(puts his hand to his eye).A little veinBurst in my eye. I must behold thee dance,To make the blood recede.
Gülistane.A strange idea.
Shalnass.Come, for my sake.
Gülistane.Why, then I must put upMy hair.
Shalnass.Then put it up. I cannot liveWhile thou delayest.
[Gülistanegoes up the stairs.]
(To the slave.)
Lead her here to me.Say only this: the one she seeks awaits her.Mark that: the one she seeks; no more.
[He walks up and down; exit slave.]
No being is so simple; no, I cannotBelieve there are such fools. Highwaymen, bosh!He sent her here, and all that contradicts itIs simply lies.I little thought that she would come tonight,But gold draws all this out of nothingness.I'll keep her if she pleases me: her husbandShall never see her face again. With fettersOf linked gold I'll deck her pretty ankles.I'll keep them both and make them both so tameThat they will swing like parrots in one ring.
[The slave leadsSobeideup the stairs. Sheis agitated, her eyes staring, her hairdisheveled, the strings of pearls torn off.She no longer wears her veil.]
Shalnass.O that my son might die for very wrath!Well, well, and how she trembles and dissembles.
[He motions the slave out.]
Sobeide(looks at him fearfully).Art thou Shalnassar?
Shalnass.Yes. And has thy husband—
Sobeide.My husband? Knowst thou that? Why, did I notJust now ... was it not just this very night?...What?... or dost thou surmise?
Shalnass.Coquettish chatterMay do for youthful apes. But I am old,And know the power that I have over you.
Sobeide.That power thou hast, but thou wilt not employ itTo do me hurt.
Shalnass.No, by the eternal light!But I am not a maker of sweet sayings,Nor fond of talk.Deliberate flattery I put behind me:The mouth that sucks the sweetness of the fruitIs mute. And this is chiefly autumn's trade.Yea, though the spring may breathe a sweeter odor,Old autumn laughs at him.—Nay, look not soUpon my hand. Because 'tis full of veins,Rank weeds, in which the juice of life dries up.—O, it will seize thee yet and it can hold thee!What, pain so soon? I'll soothe it with a stringOf pearls, come, come!
[Tries to draw her away.]
Sobeide(frees herself).Have mercy, thou, my poor enfeebled brainIs all deranged. Is it to me thou speakest?Speak, thou art surely drunken or wouldst mock me.Knowst thou then who I am? Oh yes, thou saidstMy husband. Yes, this was my wedding-day!Knowst thou it? When I stood with him alone,My husband, then it all came over me;I wept aloud, and when he asked me, thenI lifted up my voice against him, spokeTo him of Ganem, of thy son, and told himThe whole. I'll tell thee later how it was.Just now I know not. Only this: the doorHe opened for me, kindly, not in anger,And said to me I was no more his wife,And I might go where'er I would.—Then goAnd fetch me Ganem! Fetch him here for me!