STRANGER. I won't deny it. But it's humiliating to confess I'm hungry, because the money's gone. I never thought that would happen to me.LADY. It seems we must be prepared for anything, for I think we've fallen into disfavour. My shoe's split, and I could weep at our having to go like this, looking like beggars.STRANGER (pointing to the signpost). And beggars are not allowed in this parish. Why must that be stuck up in large letters here?LADY. It's been there as long as I can remember. Think of it, I've not been back since I was a child. And In those days I found the way short and the hills lower. The trees, too, were smaller, and I think I used to hear birds singing.STRANGER. Birds sang all the year for you then! Now they only sing in the spring—and autumn's not far off. But in those days you used to dance along this endless way of Calvaries, plucking flowers at the feet of the crosses. (A horn in the distance.) What's that?LADY. My grandfather coming back from shooting. A good old man. Let's go on and reach the house by dark.STRANGER. Is it still far?LADY. No. Only across the hills and over the river.STRANGER. Is that the river I hear?LADY. The river by which I was born and brought up. I was eighteen before I crossed over to this bank, to see what was in the blue of the distance.... Now I've seen.STRANGER. You're weeping!LADY. Poor old man! When I got into the boat, he said: My child, beyond lies the world. When you've seen enough, come back to your mountains, and they will hide you. Now I've seen enough. Enough!STRANGER. Let's go. It's beginning to grow dusk already. (They pick up their travelling capes and go on.)SCENE VI IN A RAVINE[Entrance to a ravine between steep cliffs covered with pines. In the foreground a wooden shanty, a broom by the door with a ramshorn hanging from its handle. Left, a smithy, a red glow showing through its open door. Right, a flourmill. In the background the road through the ravine with mill-stream and footbridge. The rock formations look like giant profiles.][On the rise of the curtain the SMITH is at the smithy door and the MILLER'S WIFE at the door of the mill. When the LADY enters they sign to one another and disappear. The clothing of both the LADY and the STRANGER is torn and shabby.]STRANGER. They're hiding, from us, probably.LADY. I don't think so.STRANGER. What a strange place! Everything seems conspire to arouse disquiet. What's that broom there? And the horn with ointment? Probably because it's their usual place, but it makes me think of witchcraft. Why is the smithy black and the mill white? Because one's sooty and the other covered with flour; yet when I saw the blacksmith by the light of his forge and the white miller's wife, it reminded me of an old poem. Look at those giant faces.... There's your werewolf from whom I saved you. There he is, in profile, see!LADY. Yes, but it's only the rock.STRANGER. Only the rock, and yet it's he.LADY. Shall I tell you why we can see him?STRANGER. You mean—it's our conscience? Which pricks us when we're hungry and tired, and is silent when we've eaten and rested. It's horrible to arrive in rags. Our clothes are torn from climbing through the brambles. Someone's fighting against me.LADY. Why did you challenge him?STRANGER. Because I want to fight in the open; not battle with unpaid bills and empty purses. Anyhow: here's my last copper. The devil take it, if there is one! (He throws it into the brook.)LADY. Oh! We could have paid the ferry with it. Now we'll have to talk of money when we reach home.STRANGER. When can we talk of anything else?LADY. That's because you've despised it.STRANGER. As I've despised everything....LADY. But not everything's despicable. Some things are good.STRANGER. I've never seen them.LADY. Then follow me and you will.STRANGER. I'll follow you. (He hesitates when passing the smithy.)LADY (who has gone on ahead). Are you frightened of fire?STRANGER. No, but... (The horn is heard in the distance. He hurries past the smithy after the LADY.)SCENE VII IN A KITCHEN[A large kitchen with whitewashed walls. Three windows in the corner, right, so arranged that two are at the back and one in the right wall. The windows are small and deeply recessed; in the recesses there are flower pots. The ceiling is beamed and black with soot. In the left corner a large range with utensils of copper, iron and tin, and wooden vessels. In the corner, right, a crucifix with a lamp. Beneath it a four-cornered table with benches. Bunches of mistletoe on the walls. A door at the back. The Poorhouse can be seen outside, and through the window at the back the church. Near the fire bedding for dogs and a table with food for the poor.][The OLD MAN is sitting at the table beneath the crucifix, with his hands clasped and a game bag before him. He is a strongly-built man of over eighty with white hair and along beard, dressed as a forester. The MOTHER is kneeling on the floor; she is grey-haired and nearly fifty; her dress is of black-and-white material. The voices of men, women and children can be clearly heard singing the last verse of the Angels' Greeting in chorus. 'Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us poor sinners, now and in the hour of death. Amen.']OLD MAN and MOTHER. Amen!MOTHER. Now I'll tell you, Father. They saw two vagabonds by the river. Their clothing was torn and dirty, for they'd been in the water. And when it came to paying the ferryman, they'd no money. Now they're drying their clothes in the ferryman's hut.OLD MAN. Let them stay there.MOTHER. Don't forbid a beggar your house. He might be an angel.OLD MAN. True. Let them come in.MOTHER. I'll put food for them on the table for the poor. Do you mind that?OLD MAN. No.MOTHER. Shall I give them cider?OLD MAN. Yes. And you can light the fire; they'll be cold.MOTHER. There's hardly time. But I will, if you wish it, Father.OLD MAN (looking out of the window). I think you'd better.MOTHER. What are you looking at?OLD MAN. The river; it's rising. And I'm asking myself, as I've done for seventy years—when I shall reach the sea.MOTHER. You're sad to-night, Father.OLD MAN.... et introibo ad altare Dei: ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam. Yes. I do feel sad.... Deus, Deus meus: quare tristis es anima mea, et quare conturbas me.MOTHER. Spera in Deo....(The Maid comes in, and signs to the MOTHER, who goes over to her. They whisper together and the maid goes out again.)OLD MAN. I heard what you said. O God! Must I bear that too!MOTHER. You needn't see them. You can go up to your room.OLD MAN. No. It shall be a penance. But why come like this: as vagabonds?MOTHER. Perhaps they lost their way and have had much to endure.OLD MAN. But to bring her husband! Is she lost to shame?MOTHER. You know Ingeborg's queer nature. She thinks all she does is fitting, if not right. Have you ever seen her ashamed, or suffer from a rebuff? I never have. Yet she's not without shame; on the contrary. And everything she does, however questionable, seems natural when she does it.OLD MAN. I've always wondered why one could never be angry with her. She doesn't feel herself responsible, or think an insult's directed at her. She seems impersonal; or rather two persons, one who does nothing but ill whilst the other gives absolution.... But this man! There's no one I've hated from afar so much as he. He sees evil everywhere; and of no one have I heard so much ill.MOTHER. That's true. But it may be Ingeborg's found some mission in this man's life; and he in hers. Perhaps they're meant to torture each other into atonement.OLD MAN. Perhaps. But I'll have nothing to do with at seems to me shameful. This man, under my roof! Yet I must accept it, like everything else. For I've deserved no less.MOTHER. Very well then. (The LADY and the STRANGER come in.) You're welcome.LADY. Thank you, Mother. (She looks over to the OLD MAN, who rises and looks at the STRANGER.) Peace, Grandfather. This is my husband. Give him your hand.OLD MAN. First let me look at him. (He goes to the STRANGER, puts his hands on his shoulders and looks him in the eyes.) What motives brought you here?STRANGER (simply). None, but to keep my wife company, at her earnest desire.OLD MAN. If that's true, you're welcome! I've a long and stormy life behind me, and at last I've found a certain peace in solitude. I beg you not to trouble it.STRANGER. I haven't come here to ask favours. I'll take nothing with me when I go.OLD MAN. That's not the answer I wanted; for we all need one another. I perhaps need you. No one can know, young man.LADY. Grandfather!OLD MAN. Yes, my child. I shan't wish you happiness, for there's no such thing; but I wish you strength to bear your destiny. Now I'll leave you for a little. Your mother will look after you. (He goes out.)LADY (to her mother). Did you lay that table for us, Mother?MOTHER. No, it's a mistake, as you can imagine.LADY. I know we look wretched. We were lost in the mountains, and if grandfather hadn't blown his horn...MOTHER. Your grandfather gave up hunting long ago.LADY. Then it was someone else.... Listen, Mother, I'll go up now to the 'rose' room, and get it straight.MOTHER. Do. I'll come in a moment.(The LADY would like to say something, cannot, and goes out.)STRANGER (to the MOTHER). I've seen this room already.MOTHER. And I've seen you. I almost expected you.STRANGER. As one expects a disaster?MOTHER. Why say that?STRANGER. Because I sow devastation wherever I go. But as I must go somewhere, and cannot change my fate, I've lost my scruples.MOTHER. Then you're like my daughter—she, too, has no scruples and no conscience.STRANGER. What?MOTHER. You think I'm speaking ill of her? I couldn't do that of my own child. I only draw the comparison, because you know her.STRANGER. But I've noticed what you speak of in Eve.MOTHER. Why do you call Ingeborg Eve?STRANGER. By inventing a name for her I made her mine. I wanted to change her....MOTHER. And remake her in your image? (Laughing.) I've been told that country wizards carve images of their victims, and give them the names of those they'd bewitch. That was your plan: by means of this Eve, that you yourself had made, you intended to destroy the whole Sex!STRANGER (looking at the MOTHER in surprise). Those were damnable words! Forgive me. But you have religious beliefs: how can you think such things?MOTHER. The thoughts were yours.STRANGER. This begins to be interesting. I imagined an idyll in the forest, but this is a witches' cauldron.MOTHER. Not quite. You've forgotten, or never knew, that a man deserted me shamefully, and that you're a man who also shamefully deserted a woman.STRANGER. Frank words. Now I know where I am.MOTHER. I'd like to know where I am. Can you support two families?STRANGER. If all goes well.MOTHER. All doesn't—in this life. Money can be lost.STRANGER. But my talent's capital I can never lose.MOTHER. Really? The greatest of talents has been known to fail... gradually, or suddenly.STRANGER. I've never met anyone who could so damp one's courage.MOTHER. Pride should be damped. Your last book was much weaker.STRANGER. You read it?MOTHER. Yes. That's why I know all your secrets. So don't try to deceive me; it won't go well with you. (Pause.) A trifle, but one that does us no good here: why didn't you pay the ferryman?STRANGER. My heel of Achilles! I threw my last coin away. Can't we speak of something else than money in this house?MOTHER. Oh yes. But in this house we do our duty before we amuse ourselves. So you came on foot because you had no money?STRANGER (hesitating). Yes....MOTHER (smiling). Probably nothing to eat?STRANGER (hesitating). No....MOTHER. You're a fine fellow!STRANGER. In all my life I've never been in such a predicament.MOTHER. I can believe it. It's almost a pity. I could laugh at the figure you cut, if I didn't know it would make you weep, and others with you. (Pause.) But now you've had your will, hold fast to the woman who loves you; for if you leave her, you'll never smile again, and soon forget what happiness was.STRANGER. Is that a threat?MOTHER. A warning. Go now, and have your supper.STRANGER (pointing at the table for the poor). There?MOTHER. A poor joke; which might become reality. I've seen such things.STRANGER. Soon I'll believe anything can happen—this is the worst I've known.MOTHER. Worse yet may come. Wait!STRANGER (cast down). I'm prepared for anything.(Exit. A moment later the OLD MAN comes in.)OLD MAN. It was no angel after all.MOTHER. No good angel, certainly.OLD MAN. Really! (Pause.) You know how superstitious people here are. As I went down to the river I heard this: a farmer said his horse shied at 'him'; another that the dogs got so fierce he'd had to tie them up. The ferryman swore his boat drew less water when 'he' got in. Superstition, but....MOTHER. But what?OLD MAN. It was only a magpie that flew in at her window, though it was closed. An illusion, perhaps.MOTHER. Perhaps. But why does one often see such things at the right time?OLD MAN. This man's presence is intolerable. When he looks at me I can't breathe.MOTHER. We must try to get rid of him. I'm certain he won't care to stay for long.OLD MAN. No. He won't grow old here. (Pause.) Listen, I got a letter to-night warning me about him. Among other things he's wanted by the courts.MOTHER. The courts?OLD MAN. Yes. Money matters. But, remember, the laws of hospitality protect beggars and enemies. Let him stay a few days, till he's got over this fearful journey. You can see how Providence has laid hands on him, how his soul is being ground in the mill ready for the sieve....MOTHER. I've felt a call to be a tool in the hands of Providence.OLD MAN. Don't confuse it with your wish for vengeance.MOTHER. I'll try not to, if I can.OLD MAN. Well, good-night.MOTHER. Do you think Ingeborg has read his last book?OLD MAN. It's unlikely. If she had she'd never have married a man who held such views.MOTHER. No, she's not read it. But now she must.SCENE VIII THE 'ROSE' ROOM[A simple, pleasantly furnished room in the forester's house. The walls are colour-washed in red; the curtains are of thin rose-coloured muslin. In the small latticed windows there are flowers. On right, a writing-table and bookshelf. Left, a sofa with rose-coloured curtains above in the form of a baldachino. Tables and chairs in Old German style. At the back, a door. Outside the country can be seen and the poorhouse, a dark, unpleasant building with black, uncurtained windows. Strong sunlight. The LADY is sitting on the sofa working.]MOTHER (standing with a book bound in rose-coloured cloth in her hand.) You won't read your husband's book?LADY. Not that one. I promised not to.MOTHER. You don't want to know the man to whom you've entrusted your fate?LADY. What would be the use? We're all right as we are.MOTHER. You make no great demands on life?LADY. Why should I? They'd never be fulfilled.MOTHER. I don't know whether you were born full of worldly wisdom, or foolishness.LADY. I don't know myself.MOTHER. If the sun shines and you've enough to eat, you're content.LADY. Yes. And when it goes in, I make the best of it.MOTHER. To change the subject: did you know your husband was being pressed by the courts on account of his debts?LADY. Yes. It happens to all writers.MOTHER. Is he mad, or a rascal?LADY. He's neither. He's no ordinary man; and it's a pity I can tell him nothing he doesn't know already. That's why we don't speak much; but he's glad to have me near him; and so am I to be near him.MOTHER. You've reached calm water already? Then it can't be far to the mill-race! But don't you think you'd have more to talk of, if you read what he has written?LADY. Perhaps. You can leave me the book, if you like.MOTHER. Take it and hide it. It'll be a surprise if you can quote something from his masterpiece.LADY (hiding the book in her bag). He's coming. If he's spoken of he seems to feel it from afar.MOTHER. If he could only feel how he makes others suffer—from afar. (Exit left.)(The LADY, alone for an instant, looks at the book and seems taken aback. She hides it in her bag.)STRANGER (entering). Your mother was here? You were speaking of me, of course. I can almost hear her ill-natured words. They cut the air and darken the sunshine. I can almost divine the impression of her body in the atmosphere of the room, and she leaves an odour like that of a dead snake.LADY. You're irritable to-day.STRANGER. Fearfully. Some fool has restrung my nerves out of tune, and plays on them with a horse-hair bow till he sets my teeth on edge.... You don't know what that is! There's someone here who's stronger than I! Someone with a searchlight who shines it at me, wherever I may be. Do they use the black art in this place?LADY. Don't turn your back on the sunlight. Look at this lovely country; you'll feel calmer.STRANGER. I can't bear that poorhouse. It seems to have been built there solely for me. And a demented woman always stands there beckoning.LADY. Do you think they treat you badly here?STRANGER. In a way, no. They feed me with tit-bits, as if I were to be fattened for the butcher. But I can't eat because they grudge it me, and I feel the cold rays of their hate. To me it seems there's an icy wind everywhere, although it's still and hot. And I can hear that accursèd mill....LADY. It's not grinding now.STRANGER. Yes. Grinding... grinding.LADY. Listen. There's no hate here. Pity, at most.STRANGER. Another thing.... Why do people I meet cross themselves?LADY. Only because they're used to praying in silence. (Pause.) You had an unwelcome letter this morning?STRANGER. Yes. The kind that makes your hair rise from the scalp, so that you want to curse at fate. I'm owed money, but can't get paid. Now the law's being set in motion against me by... the guardians of my children, because I've not paid alimony. No one has ever been in such a dishonourable position. I'm blameless. I could pay my way; I want to, but am prevented! Not my fault; yet my shame! It's not in nature. The devil's got a hand in it.LADY. Why?STRANGER. Why? Why is one born into this world an ignoramus, knowing nothing of the laws, customs and usage one inadvertently breaks? And for which one's punished. Why does one grow into a youth full of high ambition only to be driven into vile actions one abhors? Why, why?LADY (who has secretly been looking at the book: absent-mindedly). There must be a reason, even if we don't know it.STRANGER. If it's to humble one, it's a poor method. It only makes me more arrogant. Eve!LADY. Don't call me that.STRANGER (starting). Why not?LADY. I don't like it. You'd feel as I do, if I called you Caesar.STRANGER. Have we got back to that?LADY. To what?STRANGER. Did you mention that name for any reason?LADY. Caesar? No. But I'm beginning to find things out.STRANGER. Very well! Then I may as well fall honourably by my own hand. I am Caesar, the school-boy, for whose escapade your husband, the werewolf, was punished. Fate delights in making links for eternity. A noble sport! (The LADY, uncertain what to do, does not reply.) Say something!LADY. I can't.STRANGER. Say that he became a werewolf because, as a child, he lost his belief in the justice of heaven, owing to the fact that, though innocent, he was punished for the misdeeds of another. But if you say so, I shall reply that I suffered ten times as much from my conscience, and that the spiritual crisis that followed left me so strengthened that I've never done such a thing again.LADY. No. It's not that.STRANGER. Then what is it? Do you respect me no longer?LADY. It's not that either.STRANGER. Then it's to make me feel my shame before you! And it would be the end of everything between us.LADY. No!STRANGER. Eve.LADY. You rouse evil thoughts.STRANGER. You've broken your vow: you've been reading my book!LADY. I have.STRANGER. Then you've done wrong.LADY. My intention was good.STRANGER. The results even of your good intentions are terrible! You've blown me into the air with my own petard. Why must all our misdeeds come home to roost—both boyish escapades and really evil action? It's fair enough to reap evil where one has sown it. But I've never seen a good action get its reward. Never! It's a disgrace to Him who records all sins, however black or venial. No man could do it: men would forgive. The gods... never!LADY. Don't say that. Say ratheryouforgive.STRANGER. I'm not small-minded. But what have I forgive you?LADY. More than I can say.STRANGER. Say it. Perhaps then we'll be quits.LADY. He and I used to read the curse of Deutertonomy over you... for you'd ruined his life.STRANGER. What curse is that?LADY. From the fifth book of Moses. The priests chant it in chorus when the fasts begin.STRANGER. I don't remember it. What does it matter—a curse more or less?LADY. In my family those whom we curse, are struck.STRANGER. I don't believe it. But I do believe that evil emanates from this house. May it recoil upon it! That is my prayer! Now, according to custom, it would be my duty to shoot myself; but I can't, so long as I have other duties. You see, I can't even die, and so I've lost my last treasure—what, with reason, I call my religion. I've heard that man can wrestle with God, and with success; but not even job could fight against Satan. (Pause.) Let's speak of you....LADY. Not now. Later perhaps. Since I've got to know your terrible book—I've only glanced at it, only read a few lines here and there—I feel as if I'd eaten of the tree of knowledge. My eyes are opened and I know what's good and what's evil, as I've never known before. And now I see how evil you are, and why I am to be called Eve. She was a mother and brought sin into the world: it was another mother who brought expiation. The curse of mankind was called down on us by the first, a blessing by the second. In me you shall not destroy my whole sex. Perhaps I have a different mission in your life. We shall see!STRANGER. So you've eaten of the tree of knowledge? Farewell.LADY. You're going away?STRANGER. I can't stay here.LADY. Don't go.STRANGER. I must. I must clear up everything. I'll take leave of the old people now. Then I'll come back. I shan't be long. (Exit.)LADY (remains motionless, then goes to the door and looks out. She sinks to her knees). No! He won't come back!Curtain.SCENE IX CONVENT[The refectory of an ancient convent, resembling a simple whitewashed Romanesque church. There are damp patches on the walls, looking like strange figures. A long table with bowls; at the end a desk for the Lector. At the back a door leading to the chapel. There are lighted candles on the tables. On the wall, left, a painting representing the Archangel Michael killing the Fiend.][The STRANGER is sitting left, at a refectory table, dressed in the white clothing of a patient, with a bowl before him. At the table, right, are sitting: the brown-clad mourners of Scene I. The BEGGAR. A woman in mourning with two children. A woman who resembles the Lady, but who is not her and who is crocheting instead of eating. A Man very like the Doctor, another like the Madman. Others like the Father, Mother, Brother. Parents of the 'Prodigal Son,' etc. All are dressed in white, but over this are wearing costumes of coloured crêpe. Their faces are waxen and corpse-like, their whole appearance queer, their gestures strange. On the rise of the curtain all are finishing a Paternoster, except the STRANGER.]STRANGER (rising and going to the ABBESS, who is standing at a serving table). Mother. May I speak to you?ABBESS (in a black-and-white Augustinian habit). Yes, my son. (They come forward.)STRANGER. First, where am I?ABBESS. In a convent called 'St. Saviour.' You were found on the hills above the ravine, with a cross you'd broken from a calvary and with which you were threatening someone in the clouds. Indeed, you thought you could see him. You were feverish and had lost your foothold. You were picked up, unhurt, beneath a cliff, but in delirium. You were brought to the hospital and put to bed. Since then you've spoken wildly, and complained of a pain in your hip, but no injury could be found.STRANGER. What did I speak of?ABBESS. You had the usual feverish dreams. You reproached yourself with all kinds of things, and thought you could see your victims, as you called them.STRANGER. And then?ABBESS. Your thoughts often turned to money matters. You wanted to pay for yourself in the hospital. I tried to calm you by telling you no payment would be asked: all was done out of charity....STRANGER. I want no charity.ABBESS. It's more blessed to give than to receive; yet a noble nature can accept and be thankful.STRANGER. I want no charity.ABBESS. Hm!STRANGER. Tell me, why will none of those people sit at the same table with me? They're getting up... going....ABBESS. They seem to fear you.STRANGER. Why?ABBESS. You look so....STRANGER. I? But what of them? Are they real?ABBESS. If you mean true, they've a terrible reality. It may be they look strange to you, because you're still feverish. Or there may be another reason.STRANGER. I seem to know them, all of them! I see them as if in a mirror: they only make as if they were eating.... Is this some drama they're performing? Those look like my parents, rather like... (Pause.) Hitherto I've feared nothing, because life was useless to me.... Now I begin to be afraid.ABBESS. If you don't believe them real, I'll ask the Confessor to introduce you. (She signs to the CONFESSOR who approaches.)CONFESSOR (dressed in a black-and-white habit of Dominicans). Sister!ABBESS. Tell the patient who are at that table.CONFESSOR. That's soon done.STRANGER. Permit a question first. Haven't we met already?CONFESSOR. Yes. I sat by your bedside, when you were delirious. At your desire, I heard your confession.STRANGER. What? My confession?CONFESSOR. Yes. But I couldn't give you absolution; because it seemed that what you said was spoken in fever.STRANGER. Why?CONFESSOR. There was hardly a sin or vice you didn't take upon yourself—things so hateful you'd have had to undergo strict penitence before demanding absolution. Now you're yourself again I can ask whether there are grounds for your self-accusations.(The ABBESS leaves them.)STRANGER. Have you the right?CONFESSOR. No. In truth, no right. (Pause.) But you want to know in whose company you are! The very best. There, for instance, is a madman, Caesar, who lost his wits through reading the works of a certain writer whose notoriety is greater than his fame. There's a beggar, who won't admit he's a beggar, because he's learnt Latin and is free. There, a doctor, called the werewolf, whose history's well known. There, two parents, who grieved themselves to death over a son who raised his hand against theirs. He must be responsible for refusing to follow his father's bier and desecrating his mother's grave. There's his unhappy sister, whom he drove out into the snow, as he himself recounts, with the best intentions. Over there's a woman who's been abandoned with her two children, and there's another doing crochet work.... All are old acquaintances. Go and greet them!(The STRANGER has turned his back on the company: he now goes to the table, left, and sits down with his back to them. He raises his head, sees the picture of the Archangel Michael and lowers his eyes. The CONFESSOR stands behind the STRANGER. A Catholic Requiem can be heard from the chapel. The CONFESSOR speaks to the STRANGER in a low voice while the music goes on.)Quantus tremor est futurusQuando judex est venturusCuncta stricte discussurus,Tuba mirum spargens sonumPer sepulchra regionumCoget omnes ante thronum.Mors stupebit et natura,Cum resurget creaturaJudicanti responsuraLiber scriptus profereturIn quo totum contineturUnde mundus judicetur.Judex ergo cum sedebitQuidquid latet apparebitNil inultum remanebit.(He goes to the desk by the table, right, and opens his breviary. The music ceases.)We will continue the reading.... 'But if thou wilt not hearken unto the voice of the Lord thy God all these curses shall overtake thee. Cursèd shalt thou be in the city, and cursèd shalt thou be in the field; cursèd shalt thou be when thou comest in, and cursèd when thou goest out.'OMNES (in a low voice). Cursèd!CONFESSOR. 'The Lord shall send upon thee vexation and rebuke in all that thou settest thy hand for to do, until thou be destroyed, and until thou perish quickly, because of the wickedness of thy doings, whereby thou hast forsaken me.'OMNES (loudly). Cursèd!CONFESSOR. 'The Lord shall cause thee to be smitten before thine enemies: thou shalt go out one way against them, and flee seven ways before them, and shalt be moved into all the kingdoms of the earth. And thy carcase shall be meat unto all fowls of the air, and unto the beasts of the earth, and no man shall fray them away. The Lord will smite thee with the botch of Egypt, the scab and the itch, with madness and blindness, that thou shalt grope at noonday, as the blind gropeth in darkness. Thou shalt not prosper in thy ways, and thou shalt be only oppressed and spoiled evermore, and no man shall save thee. Thou shalt betroth a wife, and another man shall lie with her: thou shalt build an house, and thou shalt not dwell therein: thou shalt plant a vineyard, and shalt not gather the grapes thereof. Thy sons and thy daughters shall be given unto another people, and thine eyes fail with longing for them; and there shall be no might in thy hand. And thou shalt find no ease on earth, neither shall the sole of thy foot have rest: the Lord shall give thee a trembling heart, and failing of eyes and sorrow of mind. And thy life shall hang in doubt before thee; and thou shalt fear day and night. In the morning thou shalt say, would God it were even! And at even thou shalt say, would God it were morning! And because thou servedst not the Lord thy God when thou livedst in security, thou shalt serve him in hunger, in thirst, in nakedness and in want; and He shall put a yoke of iron upon thy neck, until He have destroyed thee!'OMNES. Amen!(The CONFESSOR has read the above loudly and rapidly, without turning to the STRANGER. All those present, except the LADY, who is working, have been listening and have joined in the curse, though they have feigned not to notice the STRANGER, who has remained with his back to them, sunk in himself. The STRANGER now rises as if to go. The CONFESSOR goes towards him.)STRANGER. What was that?CONFESSOR. The Book of Deuteronomy.STRANGER. Of course. But I seem to remember blessings in it, too.CONFESSOR. Yes, for those who keep His commandments.STRANGER. Hm.... I can't deny that, for a moment, I felt shaken. Are they temptations to be resisted, or warnings to be obeyed? (Pause.) Anyhow I'm certain now that I have fever. I must go to a real doctor.CONFESSOR. See heisthe right one!STRANGER. Of course!CONFESSOR. Who can heal 'delightful scruples of conscience'!ABBESS. Should you need charity again, you now know where to find it.STRANGER. No. I do not.ABBESS (in a low voice). Then I'll tell you. In a 'rose' room, near a certain running stream.STRANGER. That's the truth! In a 'rose' room. Wait; how long have I been here?ABBESS. Three months to-day.STRANGER. Three months! Have I been sleeping? Or where have I been? (Looking out of the window.) It's autumn. The trees are bare; the clouds look cold. Now it's coming back to me! Can you hear a mill grinding? The sound of a horn? The rushing of a river? A wood whispering—and a woman weeping? You're right. Only there can charity be found. Farewell. (Exit.)CONFESSOR (to the Abbess). The fool! The fool!Curtain.SCENE X THE 'ROSE' ROOM[The curtains have been taken down. The windows gape into the darkness outside. The furniture has been covered in brown loose-covers and pulled forward. The flowers have been taken away, and the large black stove lit. The MOTHER is standing ironing white curtains by the light of a single lamp. There is a knock at the door.]MOTHER. Come in!STRANGER (doing so). Where's my wife?MOTHER. Where do you come from?STRANGER. I think, from hell. But where's my wife?MOTHER. Which of them do you mean?STRANGER. The question's justified. Everything is, except to me.MOTHER. There may be a reason: I'm glad you've seen it. Where have you been?STRANGER. Whether in a poorhouse, a madhouse or a hospital, I don't know. I should like to think it all a feverish dream. I've been ill: I lost my memory and can't believe three months have passed. But where's my wife?MOTHER. I ought to ask you that. When you deserted her, she went away—to look for you. Whether she's tired of looking, I can't say.STRANGER. Something's amiss here. Where's the Old Man?MOTHER. Where there's no more suffering.STRANGER. You mean he's dead?MOTHER. Yes. He's dead.STRANGER. You say it as if you wanted to add him to my victims.MOTHER. Perhaps I'm right to do so.STRANGER. He didn't look sensitive: he was capable of steady hatred.MOTHER. No. He hated only what was evil, in himself and others.STRANGER. So I'm wrong there, too! (Pause.)MOTHER. What do you want here?STRANGER. Charity!MOTHER. At last! How was it at the hospital! Sit down and tell me.STRANGER (sitting). I don't want to think of it. I don't even know if itwasa hospital.MOTHER. Strange. Tell me what happened after you left here.STRANGER. I fell in the mountains, hurt my hip and lost consciousness. If you'll speak kindly to me you shall know more.MOTHER. I will.STRANGER. When I woke I was in a red iron bedstead. Three men were pulling a cord that ran through two blocks. Every time they pulled I felt I grew two feet taller....MOTHER. They were putting in your hip.STRANGER. I hadn't thought of that. Then... I lay watching my past life unroll before me like a panorama, through childhood, youth.... And when the roll was finished it began again. All the time I heard a mill grinding.... I can hear it still. Yes, here too!MOTHER. Those were not pleasant visions.STRANGER. No. At last I came to the conclusion... that I was a thoroughgoing scamp.MOTHER. Why call yourself that?STRANGER. I know you'd like to hear me say I was a scoundrel. But that would seem to me like boasting. It would imply a certainty about myself to which I've not attained.MOTHER. You're still in doubt?STRANGER. Of a great deal. But I've begun to have an inkling.MOTHER. That....?STRANGER. That there are forces which, till now, I've not believed in.MOTHER. You've come to see that neither you, nor any other man, directs your destiny?STRANGER. I have.MOTHER. Then you've already gone part of the way.STRANGER. But I myself have changed. I'm ruined; for I've lost all aptitude for writing. And I can't sleep at night.MOTHER. Indeed!STRANGER. What are called nightmares stop me. Last and worst: I daren't die; for I'm no longer sure my miseries will end, withmyend.MOTHER. Oh!STRANGER. Even worse: I've grown so to loathe myself that I'd escape from myself, if I knew how. If I were a Christian, I couldn't obey the first commandment, to love my neighbour as myself, for I should have to hate him as I hate myself. It's true that I'm a scamp. I've always suspected it; and because I never wanted life to fool me, I've observed 'others' carefully. When I saw they were no better than I, I resented their trying to browbeat me.MOTHER. You've been wrong to think it a matter between you and others. You have to deal with Him.STRANGER. With whom?MOTHER. The Invisible One, who guides your destiny.STRANGER. Would I could see Him.MOTHER. It would be your death.STRANGER. Oh no!MOTHER. Where do you get this devilish spirit of rebellion? If you won't bow your neck like the rest, you must be broken like a reed.STRANGER. I don't know where this fearful stubbornness comes from. It's true an unpaid bill can make me tremble; but if I were to climb Mount Sinai and face the Eternal One, I should not cover my face.MOTHER. Jesus and Mary! Don't say such things. You'll make me think you're a child of the Devil.STRANGER. Here that seems the general opinion. But I've heard that those who serve the Evil One get honours, goods and gold as their reward. Gold especially. Do you think me suspect?MOTHER. You'll bring a curse on my house.STRANGER. Then I'll leave it.MOTHER. And go into the night. Where?STRANGER. To seek the only one that I don't hate.MOTHER. Are you sure she'll receive you?STRANGER. Quite sure.MOTHER. I'm not.STRANGER. I am.MOTHER. Then I must raise your doubts.STRANGER. You can't.MOTHER. Yes, I can.STRANGER. It's a lie.MOTHER. We're no longer speaking kindly. We must stop. Can you sleep in the attic?STRANGER. I can't sleep anywhere.MOTHER. Still, I'll say good-night to you, whether you think I mean it, or not.STRANGER. You're sure there are no rats in the attic? I don't fear ghosts, but rats aren't pleasant.MOTHER. I'm glad you don't fear ghosts, for no one's slept a whole night there... whatever the cause may be.STRANGER (after a moment's hesitation). Never have I met a more wicked woman than you. The reason is: you have religion.MOTHER. Good-night!Curtain.SCENE XI IN THE KITCHEN[It is dark, but the moon outside throws moving shadows of the window lattices on to the floor, as the storm clouds race by. In the corner, right, under the crucifix, where the OLD MAN used to sit, a hunting horn, a gun and a game bag hang on the wall. On the table a stuffed bird of prey. As the windows are open the curtains are flapping in the wind; and kitchen cloths, aprons and towels, that are hung on a line by the hearth, move in the wind, whose sighing can be heard. In the distance the noise of a waterfall. There is an occasional tapping on the wooden floor.]STRANGER (entering, half-dressed, a lamp in his hand). Is anyone here? No. (He comes forward with a light, which makes the play of shadow less marked.) What's moving on the floor? Is anyone here? (He goes to the table, sees the stuffed bird and stands riveted to the spot.) God!MOTHER (coming in with a lamp). Still up?STRANGER. I couldn't sleep.MOTHER (gently). Why not, my son?STRANGER. I heard someone above me.MOTHER. Impossible. There's nothing over the attic.STRANGER. That's why I was uneasy! What's moving on the floor like snakes?MOTHER. Moonbeams.STRANGER. Yes. Moonbeams. That's a stuffed bird. And those are cloths. Everything's natural; that's what makes me uneasy. Who was knocking during the night? Was anyone locked out?MOTHER. It was a horse in the stable.STRANGER. Why should it make that noise?MOTHER. Some animals have nightmares.STRANGER. What are nightmares?MOTHER. Who knows?STRANGER. May I sit down?MOTHER. Do. I want to speak seriously to you. I was malicious last night; you must forgive me. It's because of that I need religion; just as I need the penitential garment and the stone floor. To spare you, I'll tell you what nightmares are to me. My bad conscience! Whether I punish myself or another punishes me, I don't know. I don't permit myself to ask. (Pause.) Now tell me what you saw in your room.STRANGER. I hardly know. Nothing. When I went in I felt as if someone were there. Then I went to bed. But someone started pacing up and down above me with a heavy tread. Do you believe in ghosts?MOTHER. My religion won't allow me to. But I believe our sense of right and wrong will find a way to punish us.STRANGER. Soon I felt cold air on my breast—it reached my heart and forced me to get up.MOTHER. And then?STRANGER. To stand and watch the whole panorama of my life unroll before me. I saw everything—that was the worst of it.MOTHER. I know. I've been through it. There's no name for the malady, and only one cure.STRANGER. What is it?MOTHER. You know what children do when they've done wrong?STRANGER. What?MOTHER. First ask forgiveness!STRANGER. And then?MOTHER. Try to make amends.STRANGER. Isn't it enough to suffer according to one's deserts?MOTHER. No. That's revenge.STRANGER. Then what must one do?MOTHER. Can you mend a life you've destroyed? Undo a bad action?STRANGER. Truly, no. But I was forced into it! Forced to take, for no one gave me the right. Accursèd be He who forced me! (Putting his hand to his heart.) Ah! He's here, in this room. He's plucking out my heart!MOTHER. Then bow your head.STRANGER. I cannot.MOTHER. Down on your knees.STRANGER. I will not.MOTHER. Christ have mercy! Lord have mercy on you! On your knees before Him who was crucified! Only He can wipe out what's been done.STRANGER. Not before Him! If I were forced, I'll recant... afterwards.MOTHER. On your knees, my son!STRANGER. I cannot bow the knee. I cannot. Help me, God Eternal. (Pause.)MOTHER (after a hasty prayer). Do you feel better?STRANGER. Yes.... It was not death. It was annihilation!MOTHER. The annihilation of the Divine. We call it spiritual death.STRANGER. I see. (Without irony.) I begin to understand.MOTHER. My son! You have left Jerusalem and are on the road to Damascus. Go back the same way you came. Erect a cross at every station, and stay at the seventh. For you, there are not fourteen, as for Him.STRANGER. You speak in riddles.MOTHER. Then go your way. Search out those to whom you have something to say. First, your wife.STRANGER. Where is she?MOTHER. You must find her. On your way don't forget to call on him you named the werewolf.STRANGER. Never!MOTHER. You'd have said that, as you came here. As you know, I expected your coming.STRANGER. Why?MOTHER. For no one reason.STRANGER. Just as I saw this kitchen... in a trance....MOTHER. That's why I now regret trying to separate you and Ingeborg. Go and search for her. If you find her, well and good. If not, perhaps that too has been ordained. (Pause.) Dawn's now at hand. Morning has come and the night has passed.STRANGER. Such a night!MOTHER. You'll remember it.STRANGER. Not all of it... yet something.MOTHER (looking out of the window, as if to herself). Lovely morning star—how far from heaven have you fallen!STRANGER (after a pause). Have you noticed that, before the sun rises, a feeling of awe takes hold of mankind? Are we children of darkness, that we tremble before the light?MOTHER. Will you never be tired of questioning?STRANGER. Never. Because I yearn for light.MOTHER. Go then, and search. And peace be with you!SCENE XII IN THE RAVINE[The same landscape as before, but in autumn colouring. The trees have lost their leaves. Work is going on at the smithy and the mill. The SMITH stands, left, in the doorway; the MILLER'S wife, right. The LADY dressed in a jacket with a hat of patent leather; but she is in mourning. The STRANGER is in Bavarian alpine kit: short jacket of rough material, knickers, heavy boots and alpenstock, green hat with heath-cock feather. Over this he wears a brown cloak with a cape and hood.]LADY (entering tired and dispirited). Did a man pass here in a long cloak, with a green hat? (The SMITH and the MILLER'S WIFE shake their heads.) Can I lodge here for the night? (The SMITH and the MILLER'S WIFE again shake their heads: to the SMITH.) May I stand in the doorway for a moment and warm myself? (The SMITH pushes her away.) God reward you according to your deserts!(Exit. She reappears on the footbridge, and exit once more.)STRANGER (entering). Has a lady in a coat and skirt crossed the brook? (The SMITH and MILLER'S WIFE shake their heads.) Will you give me some bread? I'll pay for it. (The MILLER'S WIFE refuses the money.) No charity!ECHO (imitating his voice from afar). Charity.(The SMITH and the MILLER'S WIFE laugh so loudly and so long that, at length, ECHO replies.)STRANGER. Good! An eye for an eye—a tooth for a tooth. It helps to lighten my conscience! (He enters the ravine.)SCENE XIII ON THE ROAD[The same landscape as before; but autumn. The BEGGAR is sitting outside a chapel with a lime twig and a bird cage, in which is a starling. The STRANGER enters wearing the same clothes as in the preceding scene.]STRANGER. Beggar! Have you seen a lady in a coat and skirt pass this way?BEGGAR. I've seen five hundred. But, seriously, I must ask you not to call me beggar now. I've found work!STRANGER. Oh! So it's you!BEGGAR. Ille ego qui quondam....STRANGER. What kind of work have you?BEGGAR. I've a starling, that whistles and sings.STRANGER. You mean,hedoes the work?BEGGAR. Yes. I'm my own master now.STRANGER. Do you catch birds?BEGGAR. No. The lime twig's merely for appearances.STRANGER. So you still cling to such things?BEGGAR. What else should I cling to? What's within us is nothing but pure... nonsense.STRANGER. Is that the final conclusion of your whole philosophy of life?BEGGAR. My complete metaphysic. The view mad be rather out of date, but...STRANGER. Can you be serious for a moment? Tell me about your past.BEGGAR. Why unravel that old skein? Twist it up rather. Twist it up. Do you think I'm always so merry? Only when I meet you: you're so damnably funny!STRANGER. How can you laugh, with a wrecked life behind you?BEGGAR. Now he's getting personal! (Pause.) If you can't laugh at adversity, not even that of others, you're begging of life itself. Listen! If you follow this wheel track you'll come, at last, to the ocean, and there the path will stop. If you sit down there and rest, you'll begin to take another view of things. Here there are so many accidents, religious themes, disagreeable memories that hinder thought as it flies to the 'rose' room. Only follow the track! If it's muddy here and there, spread your wings and flutter. And talking of fluttering: I once heard a bird that sang of Polycrates and his ring; how he'd become possessed of all the marvels of this world, but didn't know what to do with them. So he sent tidings east and west of the great Nothing he'd helped to fashion from the empty universe. I wouldn't assert you were the man, unless I believed it so firmly I could take my oath on it. Once I asked you whether you knew who I was, and you said it didn't interest you. In return I offered you my friendship, but you refused it rudely. However, I'm not sensitive or resentful, so I'll give you good advice on your way. Follow the track!STRANGER (avoiding him). You don't deceive me.BEGGAR. You believe nothing but evil. That's why you get nothing but evil. Try to believe what is good. Try!STRANGER. I will. But if I'm deceived, I've the right to....BEGGAR. You've no right to do that.STRANGER (as if to himself ). Who is it reads my secret thoughts, turns my soul inside out, and pursues me? Why do you persecute me?BEGGAR. Saul! Saul! Why persecutest thou Me?(The STRANGER goes out with a gesture of horror. The chord of the funeral march is heard again. The LADY enters.)LADY. Have you seen a man pass this way in a long cloak, with a green hat?BEGGAR. There was a poor devil here, who hobbled off....LADY. The man I'm searching for's not lame.BEGGAR. Nor was he. It seems he'd hurt his hip; and that made him walk unsteadily. I mustn't be malicious. Look here in the mud.LADY. Where?BEGGAR (pointing). There! At that rut. In it you can see the impression of a boot, firmly planted....LADY (looking at the impression). It's he! His heavy tread.... Can I catch him up?BEGGAR. Follow the track!LADY (taking his hand and kissing it). Thank you, my friend. (Exit.)SCENE XIV BY THE SEA[The same landscape as before, but now winter. The sea is dark blue, and on the horizon great clouds take on the shapes of huge heads. In the distance three bare masts of a wrecked ship, that look like three white crosses. The table and seat are still under the tree, but the chairs have been removed. There is snow on the ground. From time to time a bell-buoy can be heard. The STRANGER comes in from the left, stops a moment and looks out to sea, then goes out, right, behind the cottage. The LADY enters, left, and appears to be following the STRANGER'S footsteps on the snow; she exits in front of the cottage, right. The STRANGER re-enters, right, notices the footprints of the LADY, pauses, and looks back, right. The LADY re-enters, throws herself into his arms, but recoils.]LADY. You thrust me away.STRANGER. No. It seems there's someone between us.LADY. Indeed there is! (Pause.) What a meeting!STRANGER. Yes. It's winter; as you see.LADY. I can feel the cold coming from you.STRANGER. I got frozen in the mountains.LADY. Do you think the spring will ever come?STRANGER. Not to us! We've been driven from the garden, and must wander over stones and thistles. And when our hands and feet are bruised, we feel we must rub salt in the wounds of the... other one. And then the mill starts grinding. It'll never stop; for there's always water.LADY. No doubt what you say is true.STRANGER. But I'll not yield to the inevitable. Rather than that we should lacerate each other I'll gash myself as a sacrifice to the gods. I'll take the blame upon me; declare it was I who taught you to break your chains. I who tempted you! Then you can lay all the blame on me: for what I did, and what happened after.LADY. You couldn't bear it.STRANGER. Yes, I could. There are moments when I feel as if I bore all the sin and sorrow, all the filth and shame of the whole world. There are moments when I believe we are condemned to sin and do bad actions as a punishment! (Pause.) Not long ago I lay sick of a fever, and amidst all that happened to me, I dreamed that I saw a crucifix without the Crucified. And when I asked the Dominican—for there was a Dominican among many others—what it could mean, he said: 'You will not allow Him to suffer for you. Suffer then yourself!' That's why mankind have grown so conscious of their own sufferings.
STRANGER. I won't deny it. But it's humiliating to confess I'm hungry, because the money's gone. I never thought that would happen to me.
LADY. It seems we must be prepared for anything, for I think we've fallen into disfavour. My shoe's split, and I could weep at our having to go like this, looking like beggars.
STRANGER (pointing to the signpost). And beggars are not allowed in this parish. Why must that be stuck up in large letters here?
LADY. It's been there as long as I can remember. Think of it, I've not been back since I was a child. And In those days I found the way short and the hills lower. The trees, too, were smaller, and I think I used to hear birds singing.
STRANGER. Birds sang all the year for you then! Now they only sing in the spring—and autumn's not far off. But in those days you used to dance along this endless way of Calvaries, plucking flowers at the feet of the crosses. (A horn in the distance.) What's that?
LADY. My grandfather coming back from shooting. A good old man. Let's go on and reach the house by dark.
STRANGER. Is it still far?
LADY. No. Only across the hills and over the river.
STRANGER. Is that the river I hear?
LADY. The river by which I was born and brought up. I was eighteen before I crossed over to this bank, to see what was in the blue of the distance.... Now I've seen.
STRANGER. You're weeping!
LADY. Poor old man! When I got into the boat, he said: My child, beyond lies the world. When you've seen enough, come back to your mountains, and they will hide you. Now I've seen enough. Enough!
STRANGER. Let's go. It's beginning to grow dusk already. (They pick up their travelling capes and go on.)
[Entrance to a ravine between steep cliffs covered with pines. In the foreground a wooden shanty, a broom by the door with a ramshorn hanging from its handle. Left, a smithy, a red glow showing through its open door. Right, a flourmill. In the background the road through the ravine with mill-stream and footbridge. The rock formations look like giant profiles.]
[On the rise of the curtain the SMITH is at the smithy door and the MILLER'S WIFE at the door of the mill. When the LADY enters they sign to one another and disappear. The clothing of both the LADY and the STRANGER is torn and shabby.]
STRANGER. They're hiding, from us, probably.
LADY. I don't think so.
STRANGER. What a strange place! Everything seems conspire to arouse disquiet. What's that broom there? And the horn with ointment? Probably because it's their usual place, but it makes me think of witchcraft. Why is the smithy black and the mill white? Because one's sooty and the other covered with flour; yet when I saw the blacksmith by the light of his forge and the white miller's wife, it reminded me of an old poem. Look at those giant faces.... There's your werewolf from whom I saved you. There he is, in profile, see!
LADY. Yes, but it's only the rock.
STRANGER. Only the rock, and yet it's he.
LADY. Shall I tell you why we can see him?
STRANGER. You mean—it's our conscience? Which pricks us when we're hungry and tired, and is silent when we've eaten and rested. It's horrible to arrive in rags. Our clothes are torn from climbing through the brambles. Someone's fighting against me.
LADY. Why did you challenge him?
STRANGER. Because I want to fight in the open; not battle with unpaid bills and empty purses. Anyhow: here's my last copper. The devil take it, if there is one! (He throws it into the brook.)
LADY. Oh! We could have paid the ferry with it. Now we'll have to talk of money when we reach home.
STRANGER. When can we talk of anything else?
LADY. That's because you've despised it.
STRANGER. As I've despised everything....
LADY. But not everything's despicable. Some things are good.
STRANGER. I've never seen them.
LADY. Then follow me and you will.
STRANGER. I'll follow you. (He hesitates when passing the smithy.)
LADY (who has gone on ahead). Are you frightened of fire?
STRANGER. No, but... (The horn is heard in the distance. He hurries past the smithy after the LADY.)
[A large kitchen with whitewashed walls. Three windows in the corner, right, so arranged that two are at the back and one in the right wall. The windows are small and deeply recessed; in the recesses there are flower pots. The ceiling is beamed and black with soot. In the left corner a large range with utensils of copper, iron and tin, and wooden vessels. In the corner, right, a crucifix with a lamp. Beneath it a four-cornered table with benches. Bunches of mistletoe on the walls. A door at the back. The Poorhouse can be seen outside, and through the window at the back the church. Near the fire bedding for dogs and a table with food for the poor.]
[The OLD MAN is sitting at the table beneath the crucifix, with his hands clasped and a game bag before him. He is a strongly-built man of over eighty with white hair and along beard, dressed as a forester. The MOTHER is kneeling on the floor; she is grey-haired and nearly fifty; her dress is of black-and-white material. The voices of men, women and children can be clearly heard singing the last verse of the Angels' Greeting in chorus. 'Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us poor sinners, now and in the hour of death. Amen.']
OLD MAN and MOTHER. Amen!
MOTHER. Now I'll tell you, Father. They saw two vagabonds by the river. Their clothing was torn and dirty, for they'd been in the water. And when it came to paying the ferryman, they'd no money. Now they're drying their clothes in the ferryman's hut.
OLD MAN. Let them stay there.
MOTHER. Don't forbid a beggar your house. He might be an angel.
OLD MAN. True. Let them come in.
MOTHER. I'll put food for them on the table for the poor. Do you mind that?
OLD MAN. No.
MOTHER. Shall I give them cider?
OLD MAN. Yes. And you can light the fire; they'll be cold.
MOTHER. There's hardly time. But I will, if you wish it, Father.
OLD MAN (looking out of the window). I think you'd better.
MOTHER. What are you looking at?
OLD MAN. The river; it's rising. And I'm asking myself, as I've done for seventy years—when I shall reach the sea.
MOTHER. You're sad to-night, Father.
OLD MAN.... et introibo ad altare Dei: ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam. Yes. I do feel sad.... Deus, Deus meus: quare tristis es anima mea, et quare conturbas me.
MOTHER. Spera in Deo....
(The Maid comes in, and signs to the MOTHER, who goes over to her. They whisper together and the maid goes out again.)
OLD MAN. I heard what you said. O God! Must I bear that too!
MOTHER. You needn't see them. You can go up to your room.
OLD MAN. No. It shall be a penance. But why come like this: as vagabonds?
MOTHER. Perhaps they lost their way and have had much to endure.
OLD MAN. But to bring her husband! Is she lost to shame?
MOTHER. You know Ingeborg's queer nature. She thinks all she does is fitting, if not right. Have you ever seen her ashamed, or suffer from a rebuff? I never have. Yet she's not without shame; on the contrary. And everything she does, however questionable, seems natural when she does it.
OLD MAN. I've always wondered why one could never be angry with her. She doesn't feel herself responsible, or think an insult's directed at her. She seems impersonal; or rather two persons, one who does nothing but ill whilst the other gives absolution.... But this man! There's no one I've hated from afar so much as he. He sees evil everywhere; and of no one have I heard so much ill.
MOTHER. That's true. But it may be Ingeborg's found some mission in this man's life; and he in hers. Perhaps they're meant to torture each other into atonement.
OLD MAN. Perhaps. But I'll have nothing to do with at seems to me shameful. This man, under my roof! Yet I must accept it, like everything else. For I've deserved no less.
MOTHER. Very well then. (The LADY and the STRANGER come in.) You're welcome.
LADY. Thank you, Mother. (She looks over to the OLD MAN, who rises and looks at the STRANGER.) Peace, Grandfather. This is my husband. Give him your hand.
OLD MAN. First let me look at him. (He goes to the STRANGER, puts his hands on his shoulders and looks him in the eyes.) What motives brought you here?
STRANGER (simply). None, but to keep my wife company, at her earnest desire.
OLD MAN. If that's true, you're welcome! I've a long and stormy life behind me, and at last I've found a certain peace in solitude. I beg you not to trouble it.
STRANGER. I haven't come here to ask favours. I'll take nothing with me when I go.
OLD MAN. That's not the answer I wanted; for we all need one another. I perhaps need you. No one can know, young man.
LADY. Grandfather!
OLD MAN. Yes, my child. I shan't wish you happiness, for there's no such thing; but I wish you strength to bear your destiny. Now I'll leave you for a little. Your mother will look after you. (He goes out.)
LADY (to her mother). Did you lay that table for us, Mother?
MOTHER. No, it's a mistake, as you can imagine.
LADY. I know we look wretched. We were lost in the mountains, and if grandfather hadn't blown his horn...
MOTHER. Your grandfather gave up hunting long ago.
LADY. Then it was someone else.... Listen, Mother, I'll go up now to the 'rose' room, and get it straight.
MOTHER. Do. I'll come in a moment.
(The LADY would like to say something, cannot, and goes out.)
STRANGER (to the MOTHER). I've seen this room already.
MOTHER. And I've seen you. I almost expected you.
STRANGER. As one expects a disaster?
MOTHER. Why say that?
STRANGER. Because I sow devastation wherever I go. But as I must go somewhere, and cannot change my fate, I've lost my scruples.
MOTHER. Then you're like my daughter—she, too, has no scruples and no conscience.
STRANGER. What?
MOTHER. You think I'm speaking ill of her? I couldn't do that of my own child. I only draw the comparison, because you know her.
STRANGER. But I've noticed what you speak of in Eve.
MOTHER. Why do you call Ingeborg Eve?
STRANGER. By inventing a name for her I made her mine. I wanted to change her....
MOTHER. And remake her in your image? (Laughing.) I've been told that country wizards carve images of their victims, and give them the names of those they'd bewitch. That was your plan: by means of this Eve, that you yourself had made, you intended to destroy the whole Sex!
STRANGER (looking at the MOTHER in surprise). Those were damnable words! Forgive me. But you have religious beliefs: how can you think such things?
MOTHER. The thoughts were yours.
STRANGER. This begins to be interesting. I imagined an idyll in the forest, but this is a witches' cauldron.
MOTHER. Not quite. You've forgotten, or never knew, that a man deserted me shamefully, and that you're a man who also shamefully deserted a woman.
STRANGER. Frank words. Now I know where I am.
MOTHER. I'd like to know where I am. Can you support two families?
STRANGER. If all goes well.
MOTHER. All doesn't—in this life. Money can be lost.
STRANGER. But my talent's capital I can never lose.
MOTHER. Really? The greatest of talents has been known to fail... gradually, or suddenly.
STRANGER. I've never met anyone who could so damp one's courage.
MOTHER. Pride should be damped. Your last book was much weaker.
STRANGER. You read it?
MOTHER. Yes. That's why I know all your secrets. So don't try to deceive me; it won't go well with you. (Pause.) A trifle, but one that does us no good here: why didn't you pay the ferryman?
STRANGER. My heel of Achilles! I threw my last coin away. Can't we speak of something else than money in this house?
MOTHER. Oh yes. But in this house we do our duty before we amuse ourselves. So you came on foot because you had no money?
STRANGER (hesitating). Yes....
MOTHER (smiling). Probably nothing to eat?
STRANGER (hesitating). No....
MOTHER. You're a fine fellow!
STRANGER. In all my life I've never been in such a predicament.
MOTHER. I can believe it. It's almost a pity. I could laugh at the figure you cut, if I didn't know it would make you weep, and others with you. (Pause.) But now you've had your will, hold fast to the woman who loves you; for if you leave her, you'll never smile again, and soon forget what happiness was.
STRANGER. Is that a threat?
MOTHER. A warning. Go now, and have your supper.
STRANGER (pointing at the table for the poor). There?
MOTHER. A poor joke; which might become reality. I've seen such things.
STRANGER. Soon I'll believe anything can happen—this is the worst I've known.
MOTHER. Worse yet may come. Wait!
STRANGER (cast down). I'm prepared for anything.
(Exit. A moment later the OLD MAN comes in.)
OLD MAN. It was no angel after all.
MOTHER. No good angel, certainly.
OLD MAN. Really! (Pause.) You know how superstitious people here are. As I went down to the river I heard this: a farmer said his horse shied at 'him'; another that the dogs got so fierce he'd had to tie them up. The ferryman swore his boat drew less water when 'he' got in. Superstition, but....
MOTHER. But what?
OLD MAN. It was only a magpie that flew in at her window, though it was closed. An illusion, perhaps.
MOTHER. Perhaps. But why does one often see such things at the right time?
OLD MAN. This man's presence is intolerable. When he looks at me I can't breathe.
MOTHER. We must try to get rid of him. I'm certain he won't care to stay for long.
OLD MAN. No. He won't grow old here. (Pause.) Listen, I got a letter to-night warning me about him. Among other things he's wanted by the courts.
MOTHER. The courts?
OLD MAN. Yes. Money matters. But, remember, the laws of hospitality protect beggars and enemies. Let him stay a few days, till he's got over this fearful journey. You can see how Providence has laid hands on him, how his soul is being ground in the mill ready for the sieve....
MOTHER. I've felt a call to be a tool in the hands of Providence.
OLD MAN. Don't confuse it with your wish for vengeance.
MOTHER. I'll try not to, if I can.
OLD MAN. Well, good-night.
MOTHER. Do you think Ingeborg has read his last book?
OLD MAN. It's unlikely. If she had she'd never have married a man who held such views.
MOTHER. No, she's not read it. But now she must.
[A simple, pleasantly furnished room in the forester's house. The walls are colour-washed in red; the curtains are of thin rose-coloured muslin. In the small latticed windows there are flowers. On right, a writing-table and bookshelf. Left, a sofa with rose-coloured curtains above in the form of a baldachino. Tables and chairs in Old German style. At the back, a door. Outside the country can be seen and the poorhouse, a dark, unpleasant building with black, uncurtained windows. Strong sunlight. The LADY is sitting on the sofa working.]
MOTHER (standing with a book bound in rose-coloured cloth in her hand.) You won't read your husband's book?
LADY. Not that one. I promised not to.
MOTHER. You don't want to know the man to whom you've entrusted your fate?
LADY. What would be the use? We're all right as we are.
MOTHER. You make no great demands on life?
LADY. Why should I? They'd never be fulfilled.
MOTHER. I don't know whether you were born full of worldly wisdom, or foolishness.
LADY. I don't know myself.
MOTHER. If the sun shines and you've enough to eat, you're content.
LADY. Yes. And when it goes in, I make the best of it.
MOTHER. To change the subject: did you know your husband was being pressed by the courts on account of his debts?
LADY. Yes. It happens to all writers.
MOTHER. Is he mad, or a rascal?
LADY. He's neither. He's no ordinary man; and it's a pity I can tell him nothing he doesn't know already. That's why we don't speak much; but he's glad to have me near him; and so am I to be near him.
MOTHER. You've reached calm water already? Then it can't be far to the mill-race! But don't you think you'd have more to talk of, if you read what he has written?
LADY. Perhaps. You can leave me the book, if you like.
MOTHER. Take it and hide it. It'll be a surprise if you can quote something from his masterpiece.
LADY (hiding the book in her bag). He's coming. If he's spoken of he seems to feel it from afar.
MOTHER. If he could only feel how he makes others suffer—from afar. (Exit left.)
(The LADY, alone for an instant, looks at the book and seems taken aback. She hides it in her bag.)
STRANGER (entering). Your mother was here? You were speaking of me, of course. I can almost hear her ill-natured words. They cut the air and darken the sunshine. I can almost divine the impression of her body in the atmosphere of the room, and she leaves an odour like that of a dead snake.
LADY. You're irritable to-day.
STRANGER. Fearfully. Some fool has restrung my nerves out of tune, and plays on them with a horse-hair bow till he sets my teeth on edge.... You don't know what that is! There's someone here who's stronger than I! Someone with a searchlight who shines it at me, wherever I may be. Do they use the black art in this place?
LADY. Don't turn your back on the sunlight. Look at this lovely country; you'll feel calmer.
STRANGER. I can't bear that poorhouse. It seems to have been built there solely for me. And a demented woman always stands there beckoning.
LADY. Do you think they treat you badly here?
STRANGER. In a way, no. They feed me with tit-bits, as if I were to be fattened for the butcher. But I can't eat because they grudge it me, and I feel the cold rays of their hate. To me it seems there's an icy wind everywhere, although it's still and hot. And I can hear that accursèd mill....
LADY. It's not grinding now.
STRANGER. Yes. Grinding... grinding.
LADY. Listen. There's no hate here. Pity, at most.
STRANGER. Another thing.... Why do people I meet cross themselves?
LADY. Only because they're used to praying in silence. (Pause.) You had an unwelcome letter this morning?
STRANGER. Yes. The kind that makes your hair rise from the scalp, so that you want to curse at fate. I'm owed money, but can't get paid. Now the law's being set in motion against me by... the guardians of my children, because I've not paid alimony. No one has ever been in such a dishonourable position. I'm blameless. I could pay my way; I want to, but am prevented! Not my fault; yet my shame! It's not in nature. The devil's got a hand in it.
LADY. Why?
STRANGER. Why? Why is one born into this world an ignoramus, knowing nothing of the laws, customs and usage one inadvertently breaks? And for which one's punished. Why does one grow into a youth full of high ambition only to be driven into vile actions one abhors? Why, why?
LADY (who has secretly been looking at the book: absent-mindedly). There must be a reason, even if we don't know it.
STRANGER. If it's to humble one, it's a poor method. It only makes me more arrogant. Eve!
LADY. Don't call me that.
STRANGER (starting). Why not?
LADY. I don't like it. You'd feel as I do, if I called you Caesar.
STRANGER. Have we got back to that?
LADY. To what?
STRANGER. Did you mention that name for any reason?
LADY. Caesar? No. But I'm beginning to find things out.
STRANGER. Very well! Then I may as well fall honourably by my own hand. I am Caesar, the school-boy, for whose escapade your husband, the werewolf, was punished. Fate delights in making links for eternity. A noble sport! (The LADY, uncertain what to do, does not reply.) Say something!
LADY. I can't.
STRANGER. Say that he became a werewolf because, as a child, he lost his belief in the justice of heaven, owing to the fact that, though innocent, he was punished for the misdeeds of another. But if you say so, I shall reply that I suffered ten times as much from my conscience, and that the spiritual crisis that followed left me so strengthened that I've never done such a thing again.
LADY. No. It's not that.
STRANGER. Then what is it? Do you respect me no longer?
LADY. It's not that either.
STRANGER. Then it's to make me feel my shame before you! And it would be the end of everything between us.
LADY. No!
STRANGER. Eve.
LADY. You rouse evil thoughts.
STRANGER. You've broken your vow: you've been reading my book!
LADY. I have.
STRANGER. Then you've done wrong.
LADY. My intention was good.
STRANGER. The results even of your good intentions are terrible! You've blown me into the air with my own petard. Why must all our misdeeds come home to roost—both boyish escapades and really evil action? It's fair enough to reap evil where one has sown it. But I've never seen a good action get its reward. Never! It's a disgrace to Him who records all sins, however black or venial. No man could do it: men would forgive. The gods... never!
LADY. Don't say that. Say ratheryouforgive.
STRANGER. I'm not small-minded. But what have I forgive you?
LADY. More than I can say.
STRANGER. Say it. Perhaps then we'll be quits.
LADY. He and I used to read the curse of Deutertonomy over you... for you'd ruined his life.
STRANGER. What curse is that?
LADY. From the fifth book of Moses. The priests chant it in chorus when the fasts begin.
STRANGER. I don't remember it. What does it matter—a curse more or less?
LADY. In my family those whom we curse, are struck.
STRANGER. I don't believe it. But I do believe that evil emanates from this house. May it recoil upon it! That is my prayer! Now, according to custom, it would be my duty to shoot myself; but I can't, so long as I have other duties. You see, I can't even die, and so I've lost my last treasure—what, with reason, I call my religion. I've heard that man can wrestle with God, and with success; but not even job could fight against Satan. (Pause.) Let's speak of you....
LADY. Not now. Later perhaps. Since I've got to know your terrible book—I've only glanced at it, only read a few lines here and there—I feel as if I'd eaten of the tree of knowledge. My eyes are opened and I know what's good and what's evil, as I've never known before. And now I see how evil you are, and why I am to be called Eve. She was a mother and brought sin into the world: it was another mother who brought expiation. The curse of mankind was called down on us by the first, a blessing by the second. In me you shall not destroy my whole sex. Perhaps I have a different mission in your life. We shall see!
STRANGER. So you've eaten of the tree of knowledge? Farewell.
LADY. You're going away?
STRANGER. I can't stay here.
LADY. Don't go.
STRANGER. I must. I must clear up everything. I'll take leave of the old people now. Then I'll come back. I shan't be long. (Exit.)
LADY (remains motionless, then goes to the door and looks out. She sinks to her knees). No! He won't come back!
Curtain.
[The refectory of an ancient convent, resembling a simple whitewashed Romanesque church. There are damp patches on the walls, looking like strange figures. A long table with bowls; at the end a desk for the Lector. At the back a door leading to the chapel. There are lighted candles on the tables. On the wall, left, a painting representing the Archangel Michael killing the Fiend.]
[The STRANGER is sitting left, at a refectory table, dressed in the white clothing of a patient, with a bowl before him. At the table, right, are sitting: the brown-clad mourners of Scene I. The BEGGAR. A woman in mourning with two children. A woman who resembles the Lady, but who is not her and who is crocheting instead of eating. A Man very like the Doctor, another like the Madman. Others like the Father, Mother, Brother. Parents of the 'Prodigal Son,' etc. All are dressed in white, but over this are wearing costumes of coloured crêpe. Their faces are waxen and corpse-like, their whole appearance queer, their gestures strange. On the rise of the curtain all are finishing a Paternoster, except the STRANGER.]
STRANGER (rising and going to the ABBESS, who is standing at a serving table). Mother. May I speak to you?
ABBESS (in a black-and-white Augustinian habit). Yes, my son. (They come forward.)
STRANGER. First, where am I?
ABBESS. In a convent called 'St. Saviour.' You were found on the hills above the ravine, with a cross you'd broken from a calvary and with which you were threatening someone in the clouds. Indeed, you thought you could see him. You were feverish and had lost your foothold. You were picked up, unhurt, beneath a cliff, but in delirium. You were brought to the hospital and put to bed. Since then you've spoken wildly, and complained of a pain in your hip, but no injury could be found.
STRANGER. What did I speak of?
ABBESS. You had the usual feverish dreams. You reproached yourself with all kinds of things, and thought you could see your victims, as you called them.
STRANGER. And then?
ABBESS. Your thoughts often turned to money matters. You wanted to pay for yourself in the hospital. I tried to calm you by telling you no payment would be asked: all was done out of charity....
STRANGER. I want no charity.
ABBESS. It's more blessed to give than to receive; yet a noble nature can accept and be thankful.
STRANGER. I want no charity.
ABBESS. Hm!
STRANGER. Tell me, why will none of those people sit at the same table with me? They're getting up... going....
ABBESS. They seem to fear you.
STRANGER. Why?
ABBESS. You look so....
STRANGER. I? But what of them? Are they real?
ABBESS. If you mean true, they've a terrible reality. It may be they look strange to you, because you're still feverish. Or there may be another reason.
STRANGER. I seem to know them, all of them! I see them as if in a mirror: they only make as if they were eating.... Is this some drama they're performing? Those look like my parents, rather like... (Pause.) Hitherto I've feared nothing, because life was useless to me.... Now I begin to be afraid.
ABBESS. If you don't believe them real, I'll ask the Confessor to introduce you. (She signs to the CONFESSOR who approaches.)
CONFESSOR (dressed in a black-and-white habit of Dominicans). Sister!
ABBESS. Tell the patient who are at that table.
CONFESSOR. That's soon done.
STRANGER. Permit a question first. Haven't we met already?
CONFESSOR. Yes. I sat by your bedside, when you were delirious. At your desire, I heard your confession.
STRANGER. What? My confession?
CONFESSOR. Yes. But I couldn't give you absolution; because it seemed that what you said was spoken in fever.
STRANGER. Why?
CONFESSOR. There was hardly a sin or vice you didn't take upon yourself—things so hateful you'd have had to undergo strict penitence before demanding absolution. Now you're yourself again I can ask whether there are grounds for your self-accusations.
(The ABBESS leaves them.)
STRANGER. Have you the right?
CONFESSOR. No. In truth, no right. (Pause.) But you want to know in whose company you are! The very best. There, for instance, is a madman, Caesar, who lost his wits through reading the works of a certain writer whose notoriety is greater than his fame. There's a beggar, who won't admit he's a beggar, because he's learnt Latin and is free. There, a doctor, called the werewolf, whose history's well known. There, two parents, who grieved themselves to death over a son who raised his hand against theirs. He must be responsible for refusing to follow his father's bier and desecrating his mother's grave. There's his unhappy sister, whom he drove out into the snow, as he himself recounts, with the best intentions. Over there's a woman who's been abandoned with her two children, and there's another doing crochet work.... All are old acquaintances. Go and greet them!
(The STRANGER has turned his back on the company: he now goes to the table, left, and sits down with his back to them. He raises his head, sees the picture of the Archangel Michael and lowers his eyes. The CONFESSOR stands behind the STRANGER. A Catholic Requiem can be heard from the chapel. The CONFESSOR speaks to the STRANGER in a low voice while the music goes on.)
Quantus tremor est futurusQuando judex est venturusCuncta stricte discussurus,Tuba mirum spargens sonumPer sepulchra regionumCoget omnes ante thronum.Mors stupebit et natura,Cum resurget creaturaJudicanti responsuraLiber scriptus profereturIn quo totum contineturUnde mundus judicetur.Judex ergo cum sedebitQuidquid latet apparebitNil inultum remanebit.
(He goes to the desk by the table, right, and opens his breviary. The music ceases.)
We will continue the reading.... 'But if thou wilt not hearken unto the voice of the Lord thy God all these curses shall overtake thee. Cursèd shalt thou be in the city, and cursèd shalt thou be in the field; cursèd shalt thou be when thou comest in, and cursèd when thou goest out.'
OMNES (in a low voice). Cursèd!
CONFESSOR. 'The Lord shall send upon thee vexation and rebuke in all that thou settest thy hand for to do, until thou be destroyed, and until thou perish quickly, because of the wickedness of thy doings, whereby thou hast forsaken me.'
OMNES (loudly). Cursèd!
CONFESSOR. 'The Lord shall cause thee to be smitten before thine enemies: thou shalt go out one way against them, and flee seven ways before them, and shalt be moved into all the kingdoms of the earth. And thy carcase shall be meat unto all fowls of the air, and unto the beasts of the earth, and no man shall fray them away. The Lord will smite thee with the botch of Egypt, the scab and the itch, with madness and blindness, that thou shalt grope at noonday, as the blind gropeth in darkness. Thou shalt not prosper in thy ways, and thou shalt be only oppressed and spoiled evermore, and no man shall save thee. Thou shalt betroth a wife, and another man shall lie with her: thou shalt build an house, and thou shalt not dwell therein: thou shalt plant a vineyard, and shalt not gather the grapes thereof. Thy sons and thy daughters shall be given unto another people, and thine eyes fail with longing for them; and there shall be no might in thy hand. And thou shalt find no ease on earth, neither shall the sole of thy foot have rest: the Lord shall give thee a trembling heart, and failing of eyes and sorrow of mind. And thy life shall hang in doubt before thee; and thou shalt fear day and night. In the morning thou shalt say, would God it were even! And at even thou shalt say, would God it were morning! And because thou servedst not the Lord thy God when thou livedst in security, thou shalt serve him in hunger, in thirst, in nakedness and in want; and He shall put a yoke of iron upon thy neck, until He have destroyed thee!'
OMNES. Amen!
(The CONFESSOR has read the above loudly and rapidly, without turning to the STRANGER. All those present, except the LADY, who is working, have been listening and have joined in the curse, though they have feigned not to notice the STRANGER, who has remained with his back to them, sunk in himself. The STRANGER now rises as if to go. The CONFESSOR goes towards him.)
STRANGER. What was that?
CONFESSOR. The Book of Deuteronomy.
STRANGER. Of course. But I seem to remember blessings in it, too.
CONFESSOR. Yes, for those who keep His commandments.
STRANGER. Hm.... I can't deny that, for a moment, I felt shaken. Are they temptations to be resisted, or warnings to be obeyed? (Pause.) Anyhow I'm certain now that I have fever. I must go to a real doctor.
CONFESSOR. See heisthe right one!
STRANGER. Of course!
CONFESSOR. Who can heal 'delightful scruples of conscience'!
ABBESS. Should you need charity again, you now know where to find it.
STRANGER. No. I do not.
ABBESS (in a low voice). Then I'll tell you. In a 'rose' room, near a certain running stream.
STRANGER. That's the truth! In a 'rose' room. Wait; how long have I been here?
ABBESS. Three months to-day.
STRANGER. Three months! Have I been sleeping? Or where have I been? (Looking out of the window.) It's autumn. The trees are bare; the clouds look cold. Now it's coming back to me! Can you hear a mill grinding? The sound of a horn? The rushing of a river? A wood whispering—and a woman weeping? You're right. Only there can charity be found. Farewell. (Exit.)
CONFESSOR (to the Abbess). The fool! The fool!
Curtain.
[The curtains have been taken down. The windows gape into the darkness outside. The furniture has been covered in brown loose-covers and pulled forward. The flowers have been taken away, and the large black stove lit. The MOTHER is standing ironing white curtains by the light of a single lamp. There is a knock at the door.]
MOTHER. Come in!
STRANGER (doing so). Where's my wife?
MOTHER. Where do you come from?
STRANGER. I think, from hell. But where's my wife?
MOTHER. Which of them do you mean?
STRANGER. The question's justified. Everything is, except to me.
MOTHER. There may be a reason: I'm glad you've seen it. Where have you been?
STRANGER. Whether in a poorhouse, a madhouse or a hospital, I don't know. I should like to think it all a feverish dream. I've been ill: I lost my memory and can't believe three months have passed. But where's my wife?
MOTHER. I ought to ask you that. When you deserted her, she went away—to look for you. Whether she's tired of looking, I can't say.
STRANGER. Something's amiss here. Where's the Old Man?
MOTHER. Where there's no more suffering.
STRANGER. You mean he's dead?
MOTHER. Yes. He's dead.
STRANGER. You say it as if you wanted to add him to my victims.
MOTHER. Perhaps I'm right to do so.
STRANGER. He didn't look sensitive: he was capable of steady hatred.
MOTHER. No. He hated only what was evil, in himself and others.
STRANGER. So I'm wrong there, too! (Pause.)
MOTHER. What do you want here?
STRANGER. Charity!
MOTHER. At last! How was it at the hospital! Sit down and tell me.
STRANGER (sitting). I don't want to think of it. I don't even know if itwasa hospital.
MOTHER. Strange. Tell me what happened after you left here.
STRANGER. I fell in the mountains, hurt my hip and lost consciousness. If you'll speak kindly to me you shall know more.
MOTHER. I will.
STRANGER. When I woke I was in a red iron bedstead. Three men were pulling a cord that ran through two blocks. Every time they pulled I felt I grew two feet taller....
MOTHER. They were putting in your hip.
STRANGER. I hadn't thought of that. Then... I lay watching my past life unroll before me like a panorama, through childhood, youth.... And when the roll was finished it began again. All the time I heard a mill grinding.... I can hear it still. Yes, here too!
MOTHER. Those were not pleasant visions.
STRANGER. No. At last I came to the conclusion... that I was a thoroughgoing scamp.
MOTHER. Why call yourself that?
STRANGER. I know you'd like to hear me say I was a scoundrel. But that would seem to me like boasting. It would imply a certainty about myself to which I've not attained.
MOTHER. You're still in doubt?
STRANGER. Of a great deal. But I've begun to have an inkling.
MOTHER. That....?
STRANGER. That there are forces which, till now, I've not believed in.
MOTHER. You've come to see that neither you, nor any other man, directs your destiny?
STRANGER. I have.
MOTHER. Then you've already gone part of the way.
STRANGER. But I myself have changed. I'm ruined; for I've lost all aptitude for writing. And I can't sleep at night.
MOTHER. Indeed!
STRANGER. What are called nightmares stop me. Last and worst: I daren't die; for I'm no longer sure my miseries will end, withmyend.
MOTHER. Oh!
STRANGER. Even worse: I've grown so to loathe myself that I'd escape from myself, if I knew how. If I were a Christian, I couldn't obey the first commandment, to love my neighbour as myself, for I should have to hate him as I hate myself. It's true that I'm a scamp. I've always suspected it; and because I never wanted life to fool me, I've observed 'others' carefully. When I saw they were no better than I, I resented their trying to browbeat me.
MOTHER. You've been wrong to think it a matter between you and others. You have to deal with Him.
STRANGER. With whom?
MOTHER. The Invisible One, who guides your destiny.
STRANGER. Would I could see Him.
MOTHER. It would be your death.
STRANGER. Oh no!
MOTHER. Where do you get this devilish spirit of rebellion? If you won't bow your neck like the rest, you must be broken like a reed.
STRANGER. I don't know where this fearful stubbornness comes from. It's true an unpaid bill can make me tremble; but if I were to climb Mount Sinai and face the Eternal One, I should not cover my face.
MOTHER. Jesus and Mary! Don't say such things. You'll make me think you're a child of the Devil.
STRANGER. Here that seems the general opinion. But I've heard that those who serve the Evil One get honours, goods and gold as their reward. Gold especially. Do you think me suspect?
MOTHER. You'll bring a curse on my house.
STRANGER. Then I'll leave it.
MOTHER. And go into the night. Where?
STRANGER. To seek the only one that I don't hate.
MOTHER. Are you sure she'll receive you?
STRANGER. Quite sure.
MOTHER. I'm not.
STRANGER. I am.
MOTHER. Then I must raise your doubts.
STRANGER. You can't.
MOTHER. Yes, I can.
STRANGER. It's a lie.
MOTHER. We're no longer speaking kindly. We must stop. Can you sleep in the attic?
STRANGER. I can't sleep anywhere.
MOTHER. Still, I'll say good-night to you, whether you think I mean it, or not.
STRANGER. You're sure there are no rats in the attic? I don't fear ghosts, but rats aren't pleasant.
MOTHER. I'm glad you don't fear ghosts, for no one's slept a whole night there... whatever the cause may be.
STRANGER (after a moment's hesitation). Never have I met a more wicked woman than you. The reason is: you have religion.
MOTHER. Good-night!
Curtain.
[It is dark, but the moon outside throws moving shadows of the window lattices on to the floor, as the storm clouds race by. In the corner, right, under the crucifix, where the OLD MAN used to sit, a hunting horn, a gun and a game bag hang on the wall. On the table a stuffed bird of prey. As the windows are open the curtains are flapping in the wind; and kitchen cloths, aprons and towels, that are hung on a line by the hearth, move in the wind, whose sighing can be heard. In the distance the noise of a waterfall. There is an occasional tapping on the wooden floor.]
STRANGER (entering, half-dressed, a lamp in his hand). Is anyone here? No. (He comes forward with a light, which makes the play of shadow less marked.) What's moving on the floor? Is anyone here? (He goes to the table, sees the stuffed bird and stands riveted to the spot.) God!
MOTHER (coming in with a lamp). Still up?
STRANGER. I couldn't sleep.
MOTHER (gently). Why not, my son?
STRANGER. I heard someone above me.
MOTHER. Impossible. There's nothing over the attic.
STRANGER. That's why I was uneasy! What's moving on the floor like snakes?
MOTHER. Moonbeams.
STRANGER. Yes. Moonbeams. That's a stuffed bird. And those are cloths. Everything's natural; that's what makes me uneasy. Who was knocking during the night? Was anyone locked out?
MOTHER. It was a horse in the stable.
STRANGER. Why should it make that noise?
MOTHER. Some animals have nightmares.
STRANGER. What are nightmares?
MOTHER. Who knows?
STRANGER. May I sit down?
MOTHER. Do. I want to speak seriously to you. I was malicious last night; you must forgive me. It's because of that I need religion; just as I need the penitential garment and the stone floor. To spare you, I'll tell you what nightmares are to me. My bad conscience! Whether I punish myself or another punishes me, I don't know. I don't permit myself to ask. (Pause.) Now tell me what you saw in your room.
STRANGER. I hardly know. Nothing. When I went in I felt as if someone were there. Then I went to bed. But someone started pacing up and down above me with a heavy tread. Do you believe in ghosts?
MOTHER. My religion won't allow me to. But I believe our sense of right and wrong will find a way to punish us.
STRANGER. Soon I felt cold air on my breast—it reached my heart and forced me to get up.
MOTHER. And then?
STRANGER. To stand and watch the whole panorama of my life unroll before me. I saw everything—that was the worst of it.
MOTHER. I know. I've been through it. There's no name for the malady, and only one cure.
STRANGER. What is it?
MOTHER. You know what children do when they've done wrong?
STRANGER. What?
MOTHER. First ask forgiveness!
STRANGER. And then?
MOTHER. Try to make amends.
STRANGER. Isn't it enough to suffer according to one's deserts?
MOTHER. No. That's revenge.
STRANGER. Then what must one do?
MOTHER. Can you mend a life you've destroyed? Undo a bad action?
STRANGER. Truly, no. But I was forced into it! Forced to take, for no one gave me the right. Accursèd be He who forced me! (Putting his hand to his heart.) Ah! He's here, in this room. He's plucking out my heart!
MOTHER. Then bow your head.
STRANGER. I cannot.
MOTHER. Down on your knees.
STRANGER. I will not.
MOTHER. Christ have mercy! Lord have mercy on you! On your knees before Him who was crucified! Only He can wipe out what's been done.
STRANGER. Not before Him! If I were forced, I'll recant... afterwards.
MOTHER. On your knees, my son!
STRANGER. I cannot bow the knee. I cannot. Help me, God Eternal. (Pause.)
MOTHER (after a hasty prayer). Do you feel better?
STRANGER. Yes.... It was not death. It was annihilation!
MOTHER. The annihilation of the Divine. We call it spiritual death.
STRANGER. I see. (Without irony.) I begin to understand.
MOTHER. My son! You have left Jerusalem and are on the road to Damascus. Go back the same way you came. Erect a cross at every station, and stay at the seventh. For you, there are not fourteen, as for Him.
STRANGER. You speak in riddles.
MOTHER. Then go your way. Search out those to whom you have something to say. First, your wife.
STRANGER. Where is she?
MOTHER. You must find her. On your way don't forget to call on him you named the werewolf.
STRANGER. Never!
MOTHER. You'd have said that, as you came here. As you know, I expected your coming.
STRANGER. Why?
MOTHER. For no one reason.
STRANGER. Just as I saw this kitchen... in a trance....
MOTHER. That's why I now regret trying to separate you and Ingeborg. Go and search for her. If you find her, well and good. If not, perhaps that too has been ordained. (Pause.) Dawn's now at hand. Morning has come and the night has passed.
STRANGER. Such a night!
MOTHER. You'll remember it.
STRANGER. Not all of it... yet something.
MOTHER (looking out of the window, as if to herself). Lovely morning star—how far from heaven have you fallen!
STRANGER (after a pause). Have you noticed that, before the sun rises, a feeling of awe takes hold of mankind? Are we children of darkness, that we tremble before the light?
MOTHER. Will you never be tired of questioning?
STRANGER. Never. Because I yearn for light.
MOTHER. Go then, and search. And peace be with you!
[The same landscape as before, but in autumn colouring. The trees have lost their leaves. Work is going on at the smithy and the mill. The SMITH stands, left, in the doorway; the MILLER'S wife, right. The LADY dressed in a jacket with a hat of patent leather; but she is in mourning. The STRANGER is in Bavarian alpine kit: short jacket of rough material, knickers, heavy boots and alpenstock, green hat with heath-cock feather. Over this he wears a brown cloak with a cape and hood.]
LADY (entering tired and dispirited). Did a man pass here in a long cloak, with a green hat? (The SMITH and the MILLER'S WIFE shake their heads.) Can I lodge here for the night? (The SMITH and the MILLER'S WIFE again shake their heads: to the SMITH.) May I stand in the doorway for a moment and warm myself? (The SMITH pushes her away.) God reward you according to your deserts!
(Exit. She reappears on the footbridge, and exit once more.)
STRANGER (entering). Has a lady in a coat and skirt crossed the brook? (The SMITH and MILLER'S WIFE shake their heads.) Will you give me some bread? I'll pay for it. (The MILLER'S WIFE refuses the money.) No charity!
ECHO (imitating his voice from afar). Charity.
(The SMITH and the MILLER'S WIFE laugh so loudly and so long that, at length, ECHO replies.)
STRANGER. Good! An eye for an eye—a tooth for a tooth. It helps to lighten my conscience! (He enters the ravine.)
[The same landscape as before; but autumn. The BEGGAR is sitting outside a chapel with a lime twig and a bird cage, in which is a starling. The STRANGER enters wearing the same clothes as in the preceding scene.]
STRANGER. Beggar! Have you seen a lady in a coat and skirt pass this way?
BEGGAR. I've seen five hundred. But, seriously, I must ask you not to call me beggar now. I've found work!
STRANGER. Oh! So it's you!
BEGGAR. Ille ego qui quondam....
STRANGER. What kind of work have you?
BEGGAR. I've a starling, that whistles and sings.
STRANGER. You mean,hedoes the work?
BEGGAR. Yes. I'm my own master now.
STRANGER. Do you catch birds?
BEGGAR. No. The lime twig's merely for appearances.
STRANGER. So you still cling to such things?
BEGGAR. What else should I cling to? What's within us is nothing but pure... nonsense.
STRANGER. Is that the final conclusion of your whole philosophy of life?
BEGGAR. My complete metaphysic. The view mad be rather out of date, but...
STRANGER. Can you be serious for a moment? Tell me about your past.
BEGGAR. Why unravel that old skein? Twist it up rather. Twist it up. Do you think I'm always so merry? Only when I meet you: you're so damnably funny!
STRANGER. How can you laugh, with a wrecked life behind you?
BEGGAR. Now he's getting personal! (Pause.) If you can't laugh at adversity, not even that of others, you're begging of life itself. Listen! If you follow this wheel track you'll come, at last, to the ocean, and there the path will stop. If you sit down there and rest, you'll begin to take another view of things. Here there are so many accidents, religious themes, disagreeable memories that hinder thought as it flies to the 'rose' room. Only follow the track! If it's muddy here and there, spread your wings and flutter. And talking of fluttering: I once heard a bird that sang of Polycrates and his ring; how he'd become possessed of all the marvels of this world, but didn't know what to do with them. So he sent tidings east and west of the great Nothing he'd helped to fashion from the empty universe. I wouldn't assert you were the man, unless I believed it so firmly I could take my oath on it. Once I asked you whether you knew who I was, and you said it didn't interest you. In return I offered you my friendship, but you refused it rudely. However, I'm not sensitive or resentful, so I'll give you good advice on your way. Follow the track!
STRANGER (avoiding him). You don't deceive me.
BEGGAR. You believe nothing but evil. That's why you get nothing but evil. Try to believe what is good. Try!
STRANGER. I will. But if I'm deceived, I've the right to....
BEGGAR. You've no right to do that.
STRANGER (as if to himself ). Who is it reads my secret thoughts, turns my soul inside out, and pursues me? Why do you persecute me?
BEGGAR. Saul! Saul! Why persecutest thou Me?
(The STRANGER goes out with a gesture of horror. The chord of the funeral march is heard again. The LADY enters.)
LADY. Have you seen a man pass this way in a long cloak, with a green hat?
BEGGAR. There was a poor devil here, who hobbled off....
LADY. The man I'm searching for's not lame.
BEGGAR. Nor was he. It seems he'd hurt his hip; and that made him walk unsteadily. I mustn't be malicious. Look here in the mud.
LADY. Where?
BEGGAR (pointing). There! At that rut. In it you can see the impression of a boot, firmly planted....
LADY (looking at the impression). It's he! His heavy tread.... Can I catch him up?
BEGGAR. Follow the track!
LADY (taking his hand and kissing it). Thank you, my friend. (Exit.)
[The same landscape as before, but now winter. The sea is dark blue, and on the horizon great clouds take on the shapes of huge heads. In the distance three bare masts of a wrecked ship, that look like three white crosses. The table and seat are still under the tree, but the chairs have been removed. There is snow on the ground. From time to time a bell-buoy can be heard. The STRANGER comes in from the left, stops a moment and looks out to sea, then goes out, right, behind the cottage. The LADY enters, left, and appears to be following the STRANGER'S footsteps on the snow; she exits in front of the cottage, right. The STRANGER re-enters, right, notices the footprints of the LADY, pauses, and looks back, right. The LADY re-enters, throws herself into his arms, but recoils.]
LADY. You thrust me away.
STRANGER. No. It seems there's someone between us.
LADY. Indeed there is! (Pause.) What a meeting!
STRANGER. Yes. It's winter; as you see.
LADY. I can feel the cold coming from you.
STRANGER. I got frozen in the mountains.
LADY. Do you think the spring will ever come?
STRANGER. Not to us! We've been driven from the garden, and must wander over stones and thistles. And when our hands and feet are bruised, we feel we must rub salt in the wounds of the... other one. And then the mill starts grinding. It'll never stop; for there's always water.
LADY. No doubt what you say is true.
STRANGER. But I'll not yield to the inevitable. Rather than that we should lacerate each other I'll gash myself as a sacrifice to the gods. I'll take the blame upon me; declare it was I who taught you to break your chains. I who tempted you! Then you can lay all the blame on me: for what I did, and what happened after.
LADY. You couldn't bear it.
STRANGER. Yes, I could. There are moments when I feel as if I bore all the sin and sorrow, all the filth and shame of the whole world. There are moments when I believe we are condemned to sin and do bad actions as a punishment! (Pause.) Not long ago I lay sick of a fever, and amidst all that happened to me, I dreamed that I saw a crucifix without the Crucified. And when I asked the Dominican—for there was a Dominican among many others—what it could mean, he said: 'You will not allow Him to suffer for you. Suffer then yourself!' That's why mankind have grown so conscious of their own sufferings.