[She seats herself again.]PROFESSOR RUBEK.[After a pause.] In all this, do you hold me guilty?IRENE.Yes.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Guilty of that—your death, as you call it.IRENE.Guilty of the fact that I had to die. [Changing her tone to one of indifference.] Why don't you sit down, Arnold?PROFESSOR RUBEK.May I?IRENE.Yes.—You need not be afraid of being frozen. I don't think I am quite turned to ice yet.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Moves a chair and seats himself at her table.] There, Irene. Now we two are sitting together as in the old days.IRENE.A little way apart from each other—also as in the old days.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Moving nearer.] It had to be so, then.IRENE.Had it?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Decisively.] There had to be a distance between us—IRENE.Was it absolutely necessary, Arnold?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Continuing.] Do you remember what you answered when I asked if you would go with me out into the wide world?IRENE.I held up three fingers in the air and swore that I would go with you to the world's end and to the end of life. And that I would serve you in all things—PROFESSOR RUBEK.As the model for my art—IRENE. —in frank, utter nakedness—PROFESSOR RUBEK.[With emotion.] And you did serve me, Irene—so bravely—so gladly and ungrudgingly.IRENE.Yes, with all the pulsing blood of my youth, I served you!PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Nodding, with a look of gratitude.] That you have every right to say.IRENE.I fell down at your feet and served you, Arnold! [Holding her clenched hand towards him.] But you, you,—you—!PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Defensively.] I never did you any wrong! Never, Irene!IRENE.Yes, you did! You did wrong to my innermost, inborn nature—PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Starting back.] I—!IRENE.Yes, you! I exposed myself wholly and unreservedly to your gaze—[More softly.] And never once did you touch me.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Irene, did you not understand that many a time I was almost beside myself under the spell of all your loveliness?IRENE.[Continuing undisturbed.] And yet—if you had touched me, I think I should have killed you on the spot. For I had a sharp needle always upon me—hidden in my hair— [Strokes her forehead meditatively.] But after all—after all—that you could—PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Looks impressively at her.] I was an artist, Irene.IRENE.[Darkly.] That is just it. That is just it.PROFESSOR RUBEK.An artist first of all. And I was sick with the desire to achieve the great work of my life. [Losing himself in recollection.] It was to be called "The Resurrection Day"—figured in the likeness of a young woman, awakening from the sleep of death—IRENE.Our child, yes—PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Continuing.] It was to be the awakening of the noblest, purest, most ideal woman the world ever saw. Then I found you. You were what I required in every respect. And you consented so willingly—so gladly. You renounced home and kindred—and went with me.IRENE.To go with you meant for me the resurrection of my childhood.PROFESSOR RUBEK.That was just why I found in you all that I required—in you and in no one else. I came to look on you as a thing hallowed, not to be touched save in adoring thoughts. In those days I was still young, Irene. And the superstition took hold of me that if I touched you, if I desired you with my senses, my soul would be profaned, so that I should be unable to accomplish what I was striving for.—And I still think there was some truth in that.IRENE.[Nods with a touch of scorn.] The work of art first—then the human being.PROFESSOR RUBEK.You must judge me as you will; but at that time I was utterly dominated by my great task—and exultantly happy in it.IRENE.And you achieved your great task, Arnold.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Thanks and praise be to you, I achieved my great task. I wanted to embody the pure woman as I saw her awakening on the Resurrection Day. Not marvelling at anything new and unknown and undivined; but filled with a sacred joy at finding herself unchanged—she, the woman of earth—in the higher, freer, happier region—after the long, dreamless sleep of death. [More softly.] Thus did I fashion her.—I fashioned her in your image, Irene.IRENE.[Laying her hands flat upon the table and leaning against the back of her chair.] And then you were done with me—PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Reproachfully.] Irene!IRENE.You had no longer any use for me—PROFESSOR RUBEK.How can you say that!IRENE. —and began to look about you for other ideals—PROFESSOR RUBEK.I found none, none after you.IRENE.And no other models, Arnold?PROFESSOR RUBEK.You were no model to me. You were the fountainhead of my achievement.IRENE.[Is silent for a short time.] What poems have you made since? In marble I mean. Since the day I left you.PROFESSOR RUBEK.I have made no poems since that day—only frittered away my life in modelling.IRENE.And that woman, whom you are now living with—?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Interrupting vehemently.] Do not speak of her now! It makes me tingle with shame.IRENE.Where are you thinking of going with her?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Slack and weary.] Oh, on a tedious coasting-voyage to the North, I suppose.IRENE.[Looks at him, smiles almost imperceptibly, and whispers.] You should rather go high up into the mountains. As high as ever you can. Higher, higher,—always higher, Arnold.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[With eager expectation.] Are you going up there?IRENE.Have you the courage to meet me once again?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Struggling with himself, uncertainly.] If we could—oh, if only we could—!IRENE.Why can we not do what we will? [Looks at him and whispers beseechingly with folded hands.] Come, come, Arnold! Oh, come up to me—![MAIA enters, glowing with pleasure, from behind the hotel,and goes quickly up to the table where they were previouslysitting.]MAIA.[Still at the corner of the hotel, without looking around.] Oh, you may say what you please, Rubek, but—[Stops, as she catches sight of IRENE]—Oh, I beg your pardon—I see you have made an acquaintance.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Curtly.] Renewed an acquaintance. [Rises.] What was it you wanted with me?MAIA.I only wanted to say this: you may do whatever you please, butIam not going with you on that disgusting steamboat.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Why not?MAIA.Because I want to go up on the mountains and into the forests—that's what I want. [Coaxingly.] Oh, you must let me do it, Rubek.—I shall be so good, so good afterwards!PROFESSOR RUBEK.Who is it that has put these ideas into your head?MAIA.Why he—that horrid bear-killer. Oh you cannot conceive all the marvelous things he has to tell about the mountains. And about life up there! They're ugly, horrid, repulsive, most of the yarns he spins—for I almost believe he's lying—but wonderfully alluring all the same. Oh, won't you let me go with him? Only to see if what he says is true, you understand. May I, Rubek?PROFESSOR RUBEK.Yes, I have not the slightest objection. Off you go to the mountains—as far and as long as you please. I shall perhaps be going the same way myself.MAIA.[Quickly.] No, no, no, you needn't do that! Not on my account!PROFESSOR RUBEK.I want to go to the mountains. I have made up my mind to go.MAIA.Oh thanks, thanks! May I tell the bear-killer at once?PROFESSOR RUBEK.Tell the bear-killer whatever you please.MAIA.Oh thanks, thanks, thanks! [Is about to take his hand; he repels the movement.] Oh, how dear and good you are to-day, Rubek![She runs into the hotel.[At the same time the door of the pavilion is softly andnoiselessly set ajar. The SISTER OF MERCY stands in theopening, intently on the watch. No one sees her.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Decidedly, turning to IRENE.] Shall we meet up there then?IRENE.[Rising slowly.] Yes, we shall certainly meet.—I have sought for you so long.PROFESSOR RUBEK.When did you begin to seek for me, Irene?IRENE.[With a touch of jesting bitterness.] From the moment I realised that I had given away to you something rather indispensable, Arnold. Something one ought never to part with.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Bowing his head.] Yes, that is bitterly true. You gave me three or four years of your youth.IRENE.More, more than that I gave you—spend-thrift as I then was.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Yes, you were prodigal, Irene. You gave me all your naked loveliness—IRENE. —to gaze upon—PROFESSOR RUBEK. —and to glorify—IRENE.Yes, for your own glorification.—And the child's.PROFESSOR RUBEK.And yours too, Irene.IRENE.But you have forgotten the most precious gift.PROFESSOR RUBEK.The most precious—? What gift was that?IRENE.I gave you my young, living soul. And that gift left me empty within—soulless. [Looking at him with a fixed stare.] It was that I died of, Arnold.[The SISTER OF MERCY opens the door wide and makes room for her.She goes into the pavilion.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Stands and looks after her; then whispers.] Irene!ACT SECOND.[Near a mountain resort. The landscape stretches, in the form ofan immense treeless upland, towards a long mountain lake. Beyondthe lake rises a range of peaks with blue-white snow in the clefts.In the foreground on the left a purling brook falls in severedstreamlets down a steep wall of rock, and thence flows smoothlyover the upland until it disappears to the right. Dwarf trees,plants, and stones along the course of the brook. In theforeground on the right a hillock, with a stone bench on thetop of it. It is a summer afternoon, towards sunset.[At some distance over the upland, on the other side of the brook,a troop of children is singing, dancing, and playing. Some aredressed in peasant costume, others in town-made clothes. Theirhappy laughter is heard, softened by distance, during thefollowing.[PROFESSOR RUBEK is sitting on the bench, with a plaid over hisshoulders, and looking down at the children's play.[Presently, MAIA comes forward from among some bushes on the uplandto the left, well back, and scans the prospect with her handshading her eyes. She wears a flat tourist cap, a short skirt,kilted up, reaching only midway between ankle and knee, and high,stout lace-boots. She has in her hand a long alpenstock.MAIA.[At last catches sight of RUBEK and calls.] Hallo![She advances over the upland, jumps over the brook, with theaid of her alpenstock, and climbs up the hillock.MAIA.[Panting.] Oh, how I have been rushing around looking for you, Rubek.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Nods indifferently and asks.] Have you just come from the hotel?MAIA.Yes, that was the last place I tried—that fly-trap.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Looking at her for moment.] I noticed that you were not at the dinner-table.MAIA.No, we had our dinner in the open air, we two.PROFESSOR RUBEK."We two"? What two?MAIA.Why, I and that horrid bear-killer, of course.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Oh, he.MAIA.Yes. And first thing to-morrow morning we are going off again.PROFESSOR RUBEK.After bears?MAIA.Yes. Off to kill a brown-boy.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Have you found the tracks of any?MAIA.[With superiority.] You don't suppose that bears are to be found in the naked mountains, do you?PROFESSOR RUBEK.Where, then?MAIA.Far beneath. On the lower slopes; in the thickest parts of the forest. Places your ordinary town-folk could never get through—PROFESSOR RUBEK.And you two are going down there to-morrow?MAIA.[Throwing herself down among the heather.] Yes, so we have arranged.—Or perhaps we may start this evening.—If you have no objection, that's to say?PROFESSOR RUBEK.I? Far be it from me to—MAIA.[Quickly.] Of course Lars goes with us—with the dogs.PROFESSOR RUBEK.I feel no curiosity as to the movements of Mr. Lars and his dogs. [Changing the subject.] Would you not rather sit properly on the seat?MAIA.[Drowsily.] No, thank you. I'm lying so delightfully in the soft heather.PROFESSOR RUBEK.I can see that you are tired.MAIA.[Yawning.] I almost think I'm beginning to feel tired.PROFESSOR RUBEK.You don't notice it till afterwards—when the excitement is over—MAIA.[In a drowsy tone.] Just so. I will lie and close my eyes.[A short pause.MAIA.[With sudden impatience.] Ugh, Rubek—how can you endure to sit there listening to these children's screams! And to watch all the capers they are cutting, too!PROFESSOR RUBEK.There is something harmonious—almost like music—in their movements, now and then; amid all the clumsiness. And it amuses me to sit and watch for these isolated moments—when they come.MAIA.[With a somewhat scornful laugh.] Yes, you are always, always an artist.PROFESSOR RUBEK.And I propose to remain one.MAIA.[Lying on her side, so that her back is turned to him.] There's not a bit of the artist about him.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[With attention.] Who is it that's not an artist?MAIA.[Again in a sleepy tone.] Why, he—the other one, of course.PROFESSOR RUBEK.The bear-hunter, you mean?MAIA.Yes. There's not a bit of the artist about him—not the least little bit.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Smiling.] No, I believe there's no doubt about that.MAIA.[Vehemently, without moving.] And so ugly as he is! [Plucks up a tuft of heather and throws it away.] So ugly, so ugly! Isch!PROFESSOR RUBEK.Is that why you are so ready to set off with him—out into the wilds?MAIA.[Curtly.] I don't know. [Turning towards him.] You are ugly, too, Rubek.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Have you only just discovered it?MAIA.No, I have seen it for long.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Shrugging his shoulders.] One doesn't grow younger. One doesn't grow younger, Frau Maia.MAIA.It's not that sort of ugliness that I mean at all. But there has come to be such an expression of fatigue, of utter weariness, in your eyes—when you deign, once in a while, to cast a glance at me.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Have you noticed that?MAIA.[Nods.] Little by little this evil look has come into your eyes. It seems almost as though you were nursing some dark plot against me.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Indeed? [In a friendly but earnest tone.] Come here and sit beside me, Maia; and let us talk a little.MAIA.[Half rising.] Then will you let me sit upon your knee? As I used to in the early days?PROFESSOR RUBEK.No, you mustn't—people can see us from the hotel. [Moves a little.] But you can sit here on the bench—at my side.MAIA.No, thank you; in that case I'd rather lie here, where I am. I can hear you quite well here. [Looks inquiringly at him.] Well, what is it you want to say to me?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Begins slowly.] What do you think was my real reason for agreeing to make this tour?MAIA.Well—I remember you declared, among other things, that it was going to do me such a tremendous lot of good. But—but—PROFESSOR RUBEK.But—?MAIA.But now I don't believe the least little bit that that was the reason—PROFESSOR RUBEK.Then what is your theory about it now?MAIA.I think now that it was on account of that pale lady.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Madame von Satow—!MAIA.Yes, she who is always hanging at our heels. Yesterday evening she made her appearance up here too.PROFESSOR RUBEK.But what in all the world—!MAIA.Oh, I know you knew her very well indeed—long before you knew me.PROFESSOR RUBEK.And had forgotten her, too—long before I knew you.MAIA.[Sitting upright.] Can you forget so easily, Rubek?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Curtly.] Yes, very easily indeed. [Adds harshly.] When I want to forget.MAIA.Even a woman who has been a model to you?PROFESSOR RUBEK.When I have no more use for her—MAIA.One who has stood to you undressed?PROFESSOR RUBEK.That means nothing—nothing for us artists. [With a change of tone.] And then—may I venture to ask—how was I to guess that she was in this country?MAIA.Oh, you might have seen her name in a Visitor's List—in one of the newspapers.PROFESSOR RUBEK.But I had no idea of the name she now goes by. I had never heard of any Herr von Satow.MAIA.[Affecting weariness.] Oh well then, I suppose it must have been for some other reason that you were so set upon this journey.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Seriously.] Yes, Maia—it was for another reason. A quite different reason. And that is what we must sooner or later have a clear explanation about.MAIA.[In a fit of suppressed laughter.] Heavens, how solemn you look!PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Suspiciously scrutinising her.] Yes, perhaps a little more solemn than necessary.MAIA.How so—?PROFESSOR RUBEK.And that is a very good thing for us both.MAIA.You begin to make me feel curious, Rubek.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Only curious? Not a little bit uneasy.MAIA.[Shaking her head.] Not in the least.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Good. Then listen.—You said that day down at the Baths that it seemed to you I had become very nervous of late—MAIA.Yes, and you really have.PROFESSOR RUBEK.And what do you think can be the reason of that?MAIA.How can I tell—? [Quickly.] Perhaps you have grown weary of this constant companionship with me.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Constant—? Why not say "everlasting"?MAIA.Daily companionship, then. Here have we two solitary people lived down there for four or five mortal years, and scarcely have an hour away from each other.—We two all by ourselves.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[With interest.] Well? And then—?MAIA.[A little oppressed.] You are not a particularly sociable man, Rubek. You like to keep to yourself and think your own thoughts. And of course I can't talk properly to you about your affairs. I know nothing about art and that sort of thing— [With an impatient gesture.] And care very little either, for that matter!PROFESSOR RUBEK.Well, well; and that's why we generally sit by the fireside, and chat about your affairs.MAIA.Oh, good gracious—I have no affairs to chat about.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Well, they are trifles, perhaps; but at any rate the time passes for us in that way as well as another, Maia.MAIA.Yes, you are right. Time passes. It is passing away from you, Rubek.—And I suppose it is really that that makes you so uneasy—PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Nods vehemently.] And so restless! [Writhing in his seat.] No, I shall soon not be able to endure this pitiful life any longer.MAIA.[Rises and stands for a moment looking at him.] If you want to get rid of me, you have only to say so.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Why will you use such phrases? Get rid of you?MAIA.Yes, if you want to have done with me, please say so right out. And I will go that instant.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[With an almost imperceptible smile.] Do you intend that as a threat, Maia?MAIA.There can be no threat for you in what I said.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Rising.] No, I confess you are right there. [Adds after a pause.] You and I cannot possibly go on living together like this—MAIA.Well? And then—?PROFESSOR RUBEK.There is no "then" about it. [With emphasis on his words.] Because we two cannot go on living together alone—it does not necessarily follow that we must part.MAIA.[Smiles scornfully.] Only draw away from each other a little, you mean?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Shakes his head.] Even that is not necessary.MAIA.Well then? Come out with what you want to do with me.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[With some hesitation.] What I now feel so keenly—and so painfully—that I require, is to have some one about me who really and truly stands close to me—MAIA.[Interrupts him anxiously.] Don't I do that, Rubek?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Waving her aside.] Not in that sense. What I need is the companionship of another person who can, as it were, complete me—supply what is wanting in me—be one with me in all my striving.MAIA.[Slowly.] It's true that things like that are a great deal too hard for me.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Oh no, they are not at all in your line, Maia.MAIA.[With an outburst.] And heaven knows I don't want them to be, either!PROFESSOR RUBEK.I know that very well.—And it was with no idea of finding any such help in my life-work that I married you.MAIA.[Observing him closely.] I can see in your face that you are thinking of some one else.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Indeed? I have never noticed before that you were a thought-reader. But you can see that, can you?MAIA.Yes, I can. Oh, I know you so well, so well, Rubek.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Then perhaps you can also see who it is I am thinking of?MAIA.Yes, indeed I can.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Well? Have the goodness to—?MAIA.You are thinking of that—that model you once used for— [Suddenly letting slip the train of thought.] Do you know, the people down at the hotel think she's mad.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Indeed? And pray what do the people down at the hotel think of you and the bear-killer?MAIA.That has nothing to do with the matter. [Continuing the former train of thought.] But it was this pale lady you were thinking of.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Calmly.] Precisely, of her.—When I had no more use for her—and when, besides, she went away from me—vanished without a word—MAIA.Then you accepted me as a sort of makeshift, I suppose?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[More unfeelingly.] Something of the sort, to tell the truth, little Maia. For a year or a year and a half I had lived there lonely and brooding, and had put the last touch—the very last touch, to my work. "The Resurrection Day" went out over the world and brought me fame—and everything else that heart could desire. [With greater warmth.] But I no longer loved my own work. Men's laurels and incense nauseated me, till I could have rushed away in despair and hidden myself in the depths of the woods. [Looking at her.] You, who are a thought-reader—can you guess what then occurred to me?MAIA.[Lightly.] Yes, it occurred to you to make portrait-busts of gentlemen and ladies.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Nods.] To order, yes. With animals' faces behind the masks. Those I threw in gratis—into the bargain, you understand. [Smiling.] But that was not precisely what I had in my mind.MAIA.What, then?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Again serious.] It was this, that all the talk about the artist's vocation and the artist's mission, and so forth, began to strike me as being very empty, and hollow, and meaningless at bottom.MAIA.Then what would you put in its place?PROFESSOR RUBEK.Life, Maia.MAIA.Life?PROFESSOR RUBEK.Yes, is not life in sunshine and in beauty a hundred times better worth while than to hang about to the end of your days in a raw, damp hole, and wear yourself out in a perpetual struggle with lumps of clay and blocks of stone?MAIA.[With a little sigh.] Yes, I have always thought so, certainly.PROFESSOR RUBEK.And then I had become rich enough to live in luxury and in indolent, quivering sunshine. I was able to build myself the villa on the Lake of Taunitz, and the palazzo in the capital,—and all the rest of it.MAIA.[Taking up his tone.] And last but not least, you could afford to treat yourself to me, too. And you gave me leave to share in all your treasures.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Jesting, so as to turn the conversation.] Did I not promise to take you up to a high enough mountain and show you all the glory of the world?MAIA.[With a gentle expression.] You have perhaps taken me up with you to a high enough mountain, Rubek—but you have not shown me all the glory of the world.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[With a laugh of irritation.] How insatiable you are, Maia.! Absolutely insatiable! [With a vehement outburst.] But do you know what is the most hopeless thing of all, Maia? Can you guess that?MAIA.[With quiet defiance.] Yes, I suppose it is that you have gone and tied yourself to me—for life.PROFESSOR RUBEK.I would not have expressed myself so heartlessly.MAIA.But you would have meant it just as heartlessly.PROFESSOR RUBEK.You have no clear idea of the inner workings of an artist's nature.MAIA.[Smiling and shaking her head.] Good heavens, I haven't even a clear idea of the inner workings of my own nature.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Continuing undisturbed.] I live at such high speed, Maia. We live so, we artists. I, for my part, have lived through a whole lifetime in the few years we two have known each other. I have come to realise that I am not at all adapted for seeking happiness in indolent enjoyment. Life does not shape itself that way for me and those like me. I must go on working—producing one work after another—right up to my dying day. [Forcing himself to continue.] That is why I cannot get on with you any longer, Maia—not with you alone.MAIA.[Quietly.] Does that mean, in plain language, that you have grown tired of me?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Bursts forth.] Yes, that is what it means! I have grown tired—intolerably tired and fretted and unstrung—in this life with you! Now you know it. [Controlling himself.] These are hard, ugly words I am using. I know that very well. And you are not at all to blame in this matter;—that I willingly admit. It is simply and solely I myself, who have once more undergone a revolution—[Half to himself]—and awakening to my real life.MAIA.[Involuntarily folding her hands.] Why in all the world should we not part then?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Looks at her in astonishment.] Should you be willing to?MAIA.[Shrugging her shoulders.] Oh yes—if there's nothing else for it, then—PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Eagerly.] But there is something else for it. There is an alternative—MAIA.[Holding up her forefinger.] Now you are thinking of the pale lady again!PROFESSOR RUBEK.Yes, to tell the truth, I cannot help constantly thinking of her. Ever since I met her again. [A step nearer her.] For now I will tell you a secret, Maia.MAIA.Well?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Touching his own breast.] In here, you see—in here I have a little bramah-locked casket. And in that casket all my sculptor's visions are stored up. But when she disappeared and left no trace, the lock of the casket snapped to. And she had the key—and she took it away with her.—You, little Maia, you had no key; so all that the casket contains must lie unused. And the years pass! And I have no means of getting at the treasure.MAIA.[Trying to repress a subtle smile.] Then get her to open the casket for you again—PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Not understanding.] Maia—?MAIA. —for here she is, you see. And no doubt it's on account of this casket that she has come.PROFESSOR RUBEK.I have not said a single word to her on this subject!MAIA.[Looks innocently at him.] My dear Rubek—is it worth while to make all this fuss and commotion about so simple a matter?PROFESSOR RUBEK.Do you think this matter is so absolutely simple?MAIA.Yes, certainly I think so. Do you attach yourself to whoever you most require. [Nods to him.] I shall always manage to find a place for myself.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Where do you mean?MAIA.[Unconcerned, evasively.] Well—I need only take myself off to the villa, if it should be necessary. But it won't be; for in town—in all that great house of ours—there must surely, with a little good will, be room enough for three.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Uncertainly.] And do you think that would work in the long run?MAIA.[In a light tone.] Very well, then—if it won't work, it won't. It is no good talking about it.PROFESSOR RUBEK.And what shall we do then, Maia—if it does not work?MAIA.[Untroubled.] Then we two will simply get out of each other's way—part entirely. I shall always find something new for myself, somewhere in the world. Something free! Free! Free!—No need to be anxious about that, Professor Rubek! [Suddenly points off to the right.] Look there! There we have her.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Turning.] Where?MAIA.Out on the plain. Striding—like a marble stature. She is coming this way.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Stands gazing with his hand over his eyes.] Does not she look like the Resurrection incarnate? [To himself.] And her I could displace—and move into the shade! Remodel her—. Fool that I was!MAIA.What do you mean by that?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Putting the question aside.] Nothing. Nothing that you would understand.[IRENE advances from the right over the upland. The childrenat their play have already caught sight of her and run tomeet her. She is now surrounded by them; some appear confidentand at ease, others uneasy and timid. She talks low to themand indicates that they are to go down to the hotel; sheherself will rest a little beside the brook. The childrenrun down over the slope to the left, half way to the back.IRENE goes up to the wall of rock, and lets the rillets ofthe cascade flow over her hands, cooling them.MAIA.[In a low voice.] Go down and speak to her alone, Rubek.PROFESSOR RUBEK.And where will you go in the meantime?MAIA.[Looking significantly at him.] Henceforth I shall go my own ways.[She descends form the hillock and leaps over the brook, by aidof her alpenstock. She stops beside IRENE.MAIA.Professor Rubek is up there, waiting for you, madam.IRENE.What does he want?MAIA.He wants you to help him to open a casket that has snapped to.IRENE.Can I help him in that?MAIA.He says you are the only person that can.IRENE.Then I must try.MAIA.Yes, you really must, madam.[She goes down by the path to the hotel.[In a little while PROFESSOR RUBEK comes down to IRENE, but stopswith the brook between them.IRENE.[After a short pause.] She—the other one—said that you had been waiting for me.PROFESSOR RUBEK.I have waited for you year after year—without myself knowing it.IRENE.I could not come to you, Arnold. I was lying down there, sleeping the long, deep, dreamful sleep.PROFESSOR RUBEK.But now you have awakened, Irene!IRENE.[Shakes her head.] I have the heavy, deep sleep still in my eyes.PROFESSOR RUBEK.You shall see that day will dawn and lighten for us both.IRENE.Do not believe that.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Urgently.] I do believe it! And I know it! Now that I have found you again—IRENE.Risen from the grave.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Transfigured!IRENE.Only risen, Arnold. Not transfigured.
[She seats herself again.]
[After a pause.] In all this, do you hold me guilty?
Yes.
Guilty of that—your death, as you call it.
Guilty of the fact that I had to die. [Changing her tone to one of indifference.] Why don't you sit down, Arnold?
May I?
Yes.—You need not be afraid of being frozen. I don't think I am quite turned to ice yet.
[Moves a chair and seats himself at her table.] There, Irene. Now we two are sitting together as in the old days.
A little way apart from each other—also as in the old days.
[Moving nearer.] It had to be so, then.
Had it?
[Decisively.] There had to be a distance between us—
Was it absolutely necessary, Arnold?
[Continuing.] Do you remember what you answered when I asked if you would go with me out into the wide world?
I held up three fingers in the air and swore that I would go with you to the world's end and to the end of life. And that I would serve you in all things—
As the model for my art—
IRENE. —in frank, utter nakedness—
[With emotion.] And you did serve me, Irene—so bravely—so gladly and ungrudgingly.
Yes, with all the pulsing blood of my youth, I served you!
[Nodding, with a look of gratitude.] That you have every right to say.
I fell down at your feet and served you, Arnold! [Holding her clenched hand towards him.] But you, you,—you—!
[Defensively.] I never did you any wrong! Never, Irene!
Yes, you did! You did wrong to my innermost, inborn nature—
[Starting back.] I—!
Yes, you! I exposed myself wholly and unreservedly to your gaze—[More softly.] And never once did you touch me.
Irene, did you not understand that many a time I was almost beside myself under the spell of all your loveliness?
[Continuing undisturbed.] And yet—if you had touched me, I think I should have killed you on the spot. For I had a sharp needle always upon me—hidden in my hair— [Strokes her forehead meditatively.] But after all—after all—that you could—
[Looks impressively at her.] I was an artist, Irene.
[Darkly.] That is just it. That is just it.
An artist first of all. And I was sick with the desire to achieve the great work of my life. [Losing himself in recollection.] It was to be called "The Resurrection Day"—figured in the likeness of a young woman, awakening from the sleep of death—
Our child, yes—
[Continuing.] It was to be the awakening of the noblest, purest, most ideal woman the world ever saw. Then I found you. You were what I required in every respect. And you consented so willingly—so gladly. You renounced home and kindred—and went with me.
To go with you meant for me the resurrection of my childhood.
That was just why I found in you all that I required—in you and in no one else. I came to look on you as a thing hallowed, not to be touched save in adoring thoughts. In those days I was still young, Irene. And the superstition took hold of me that if I touched you, if I desired you with my senses, my soul would be profaned, so that I should be unable to accomplish what I was striving for.—And I still think there was some truth in that.
[Nods with a touch of scorn.] The work of art first—then the human being.
You must judge me as you will; but at that time I was utterly dominated by my great task—and exultantly happy in it.
And you achieved your great task, Arnold.
Thanks and praise be to you, I achieved my great task. I wanted to embody the pure woman as I saw her awakening on the Resurrection Day. Not marvelling at anything new and unknown and undivined; but filled with a sacred joy at finding herself unchanged—she, the woman of earth—in the higher, freer, happier region—after the long, dreamless sleep of death. [More softly.] Thus did I fashion her.—I fashioned her in your image, Irene.
[Laying her hands flat upon the table and leaning against the back of her chair.] And then you were done with me—
[Reproachfully.] Irene!
You had no longer any use for me—
How can you say that!
IRENE. —and began to look about you for other ideals—
I found none, none after you.
And no other models, Arnold?
You were no model to me. You were the fountainhead of my achievement.
[Is silent for a short time.] What poems have you made since? In marble I mean. Since the day I left you.
I have made no poems since that day—only frittered away my life in modelling.
And that woman, whom you are now living with—?
[Interrupting vehemently.] Do not speak of her now! It makes me tingle with shame.
Where are you thinking of going with her?
[Slack and weary.] Oh, on a tedious coasting-voyage to the North, I suppose.
[Looks at him, smiles almost imperceptibly, and whispers.] You should rather go high up into the mountains. As high as ever you can. Higher, higher,—always higher, Arnold.
[With eager expectation.] Are you going up there?
Have you the courage to meet me once again?
[Struggling with himself, uncertainly.] If we could—oh, if only we could—!
Why can we not do what we will? [Looks at him and whispers beseechingly with folded hands.] Come, come, Arnold! Oh, come up to me—!
[MAIA enters, glowing with pleasure, from behind the hotel,and goes quickly up to the table where they were previouslysitting.]
[Still at the corner of the hotel, without looking around.] Oh, you may say what you please, Rubek, but—[Stops, as she catches sight of IRENE]—Oh, I beg your pardon—I see you have made an acquaintance.
[Curtly.] Renewed an acquaintance. [Rises.] What was it you wanted with me?
I only wanted to say this: you may do whatever you please, butIam not going with you on that disgusting steamboat.
Why not?
Because I want to go up on the mountains and into the forests—that's what I want. [Coaxingly.] Oh, you must let me do it, Rubek.—I shall be so good, so good afterwards!
Who is it that has put these ideas into your head?
Why he—that horrid bear-killer. Oh you cannot conceive all the marvelous things he has to tell about the mountains. And about life up there! They're ugly, horrid, repulsive, most of the yarns he spins—for I almost believe he's lying—but wonderfully alluring all the same. Oh, won't you let me go with him? Only to see if what he says is true, you understand. May I, Rubek?
Yes, I have not the slightest objection. Off you go to the mountains—as far and as long as you please. I shall perhaps be going the same way myself.
[Quickly.] No, no, no, you needn't do that! Not on my account!
I want to go to the mountains. I have made up my mind to go.
Oh thanks, thanks! May I tell the bear-killer at once?
Tell the bear-killer whatever you please.
Oh thanks, thanks, thanks! [Is about to take his hand; he repels the movement.] Oh, how dear and good you are to-day, Rubek!
[She runs into the hotel.[At the same time the door of the pavilion is softly andnoiselessly set ajar. The SISTER OF MERCY stands in theopening, intently on the watch. No one sees her.
[Decidedly, turning to IRENE.] Shall we meet up there then?
[Rising slowly.] Yes, we shall certainly meet.—I have sought for you so long.
When did you begin to seek for me, Irene?
[With a touch of jesting bitterness.] From the moment I realised that I had given away to you something rather indispensable, Arnold. Something one ought never to part with.
[Bowing his head.] Yes, that is bitterly true. You gave me three or four years of your youth.
More, more than that I gave you—spend-thrift as I then was.
Yes, you were prodigal, Irene. You gave me all your naked loveliness—
IRENE. —to gaze upon—
PROFESSOR RUBEK. —and to glorify—
Yes, for your own glorification.—And the child's.
And yours too, Irene.
But you have forgotten the most precious gift.
The most precious—? What gift was that?
I gave you my young, living soul. And that gift left me empty within—soulless. [Looking at him with a fixed stare.] It was that I died of, Arnold.
[The SISTER OF MERCY opens the door wide and makes room for her.She goes into the pavilion.
[Stands and looks after her; then whispers.] Irene!
[Near a mountain resort. The landscape stretches, in the form ofan immense treeless upland, towards a long mountain lake. Beyondthe lake rises a range of peaks with blue-white snow in the clefts.In the foreground on the left a purling brook falls in severedstreamlets down a steep wall of rock, and thence flows smoothlyover the upland until it disappears to the right. Dwarf trees,plants, and stones along the course of the brook. In theforeground on the right a hillock, with a stone bench on thetop of it. It is a summer afternoon, towards sunset.
[At some distance over the upland, on the other side of the brook,a troop of children is singing, dancing, and playing. Some aredressed in peasant costume, others in town-made clothes. Theirhappy laughter is heard, softened by distance, during thefollowing.
[PROFESSOR RUBEK is sitting on the bench, with a plaid over hisshoulders, and looking down at the children's play.
[Presently, MAIA comes forward from among some bushes on the uplandto the left, well back, and scans the prospect with her handshading her eyes. She wears a flat tourist cap, a short skirt,kilted up, reaching only midway between ankle and knee, and high,stout lace-boots. She has in her hand a long alpenstock.
[At last catches sight of RUBEK and calls.] Hallo!
[She advances over the upland, jumps over the brook, with theaid of her alpenstock, and climbs up the hillock.
[Panting.] Oh, how I have been rushing around looking for you, Rubek.
[Nods indifferently and asks.] Have you just come from the hotel?
Yes, that was the last place I tried—that fly-trap.
[Looking at her for moment.] I noticed that you were not at the dinner-table.
No, we had our dinner in the open air, we two.
"We two"? What two?
Why, I and that horrid bear-killer, of course.
Oh, he.
Yes. And first thing to-morrow morning we are going off again.
After bears?
Yes. Off to kill a brown-boy.
Have you found the tracks of any?
[With superiority.] You don't suppose that bears are to be found in the naked mountains, do you?
Where, then?
Far beneath. On the lower slopes; in the thickest parts of the forest. Places your ordinary town-folk could never get through—
And you two are going down there to-morrow?
[Throwing herself down among the heather.] Yes, so we have arranged.—Or perhaps we may start this evening.—If you have no objection, that's to say?
I? Far be it from me to—
[Quickly.] Of course Lars goes with us—with the dogs.
I feel no curiosity as to the movements of Mr. Lars and his dogs. [Changing the subject.] Would you not rather sit properly on the seat?
[Drowsily.] No, thank you. I'm lying so delightfully in the soft heather.
I can see that you are tired.
[Yawning.] I almost think I'm beginning to feel tired.
You don't notice it till afterwards—when the excitement is over—
[In a drowsy tone.] Just so. I will lie and close my eyes.
[A short pause.
[With sudden impatience.] Ugh, Rubek—how can you endure to sit there listening to these children's screams! And to watch all the capers they are cutting, too!
There is something harmonious—almost like music—in their movements, now and then; amid all the clumsiness. And it amuses me to sit and watch for these isolated moments—when they come.
[With a somewhat scornful laugh.] Yes, you are always, always an artist.
And I propose to remain one.
[Lying on her side, so that her back is turned to him.] There's not a bit of the artist about him.
[With attention.] Who is it that's not an artist?
[Again in a sleepy tone.] Why, he—the other one, of course.
The bear-hunter, you mean?
Yes. There's not a bit of the artist about him—not the least little bit.
[Smiling.] No, I believe there's no doubt about that.
[Vehemently, without moving.] And so ugly as he is! [Plucks up a tuft of heather and throws it away.] So ugly, so ugly! Isch!
Is that why you are so ready to set off with him—out into the wilds?
[Curtly.] I don't know. [Turning towards him.] You are ugly, too, Rubek.
Have you only just discovered it?
No, I have seen it for long.
[Shrugging his shoulders.] One doesn't grow younger. One doesn't grow younger, Frau Maia.
It's not that sort of ugliness that I mean at all. But there has come to be such an expression of fatigue, of utter weariness, in your eyes—when you deign, once in a while, to cast a glance at me.
Have you noticed that?
[Nods.] Little by little this evil look has come into your eyes. It seems almost as though you were nursing some dark plot against me.
Indeed? [In a friendly but earnest tone.] Come here and sit beside me, Maia; and let us talk a little.
[Half rising.] Then will you let me sit upon your knee? As I used to in the early days?
No, you mustn't—people can see us from the hotel. [Moves a little.] But you can sit here on the bench—at my side.
No, thank you; in that case I'd rather lie here, where I am. I can hear you quite well here. [Looks inquiringly at him.] Well, what is it you want to say to me?
[Begins slowly.] What do you think was my real reason for agreeing to make this tour?
Well—I remember you declared, among other things, that it was going to do me such a tremendous lot of good. But—but—
But—?
But now I don't believe the least little bit that that was the reason—
Then what is your theory about it now?
I think now that it was on account of that pale lady.
Madame von Satow—!
Yes, she who is always hanging at our heels. Yesterday evening she made her appearance up here too.
But what in all the world—!
Oh, I know you knew her very well indeed—long before you knew me.
And had forgotten her, too—long before I knew you.
[Sitting upright.] Can you forget so easily, Rubek?
[Curtly.] Yes, very easily indeed. [Adds harshly.] When I want to forget.
Even a woman who has been a model to you?
When I have no more use for her—
One who has stood to you undressed?
That means nothing—nothing for us artists. [With a change of tone.] And then—may I venture to ask—how was I to guess that she was in this country?
Oh, you might have seen her name in a Visitor's List—in one of the newspapers.
But I had no idea of the name she now goes by. I had never heard of any Herr von Satow.
[Affecting weariness.] Oh well then, I suppose it must have been for some other reason that you were so set upon this journey.
[Seriously.] Yes, Maia—it was for another reason. A quite different reason. And that is what we must sooner or later have a clear explanation about.
[In a fit of suppressed laughter.] Heavens, how solemn you look!
[Suspiciously scrutinising her.] Yes, perhaps a little more solemn than necessary.
How so—?
And that is a very good thing for us both.
You begin to make me feel curious, Rubek.
Only curious? Not a little bit uneasy.
[Shaking her head.] Not in the least.
Good. Then listen.—You said that day down at the Baths that it seemed to you I had become very nervous of late—
Yes, and you really have.
And what do you think can be the reason of that?
How can I tell—? [Quickly.] Perhaps you have grown weary of this constant companionship with me.
Constant—? Why not say "everlasting"?
Daily companionship, then. Here have we two solitary people lived down there for four or five mortal years, and scarcely have an hour away from each other.—We two all by ourselves.
[With interest.] Well? And then—?
[A little oppressed.] You are not a particularly sociable man, Rubek. You like to keep to yourself and think your own thoughts. And of course I can't talk properly to you about your affairs. I know nothing about art and that sort of thing— [With an impatient gesture.] And care very little either, for that matter!
Well, well; and that's why we generally sit by the fireside, and chat about your affairs.
Oh, good gracious—I have no affairs to chat about.
Well, they are trifles, perhaps; but at any rate the time passes for us in that way as well as another, Maia.
Yes, you are right. Time passes. It is passing away from you, Rubek.—And I suppose it is really that that makes you so uneasy—
[Nods vehemently.] And so restless! [Writhing in his seat.] No, I shall soon not be able to endure this pitiful life any longer.
[Rises and stands for a moment looking at him.] If you want to get rid of me, you have only to say so.
Why will you use such phrases? Get rid of you?
Yes, if you want to have done with me, please say so right out. And I will go that instant.
[With an almost imperceptible smile.] Do you intend that as a threat, Maia?
There can be no threat for you in what I said.
[Rising.] No, I confess you are right there. [Adds after a pause.] You and I cannot possibly go on living together like this—
Well? And then—?
There is no "then" about it. [With emphasis on his words.] Because we two cannot go on living together alone—it does not necessarily follow that we must part.
[Smiles scornfully.] Only draw away from each other a little, you mean?
[Shakes his head.] Even that is not necessary.
Well then? Come out with what you want to do with me.
[With some hesitation.] What I now feel so keenly—and so painfully—that I require, is to have some one about me who really and truly stands close to me—
[Interrupts him anxiously.] Don't I do that, Rubek?
[Waving her aside.] Not in that sense. What I need is the companionship of another person who can, as it were, complete me—supply what is wanting in me—be one with me in all my striving.
[Slowly.] It's true that things like that are a great deal too hard for me.
Oh no, they are not at all in your line, Maia.
[With an outburst.] And heaven knows I don't want them to be, either!
I know that very well.—And it was with no idea of finding any such help in my life-work that I married you.
[Observing him closely.] I can see in your face that you are thinking of some one else.
Indeed? I have never noticed before that you were a thought-reader. But you can see that, can you?
Yes, I can. Oh, I know you so well, so well, Rubek.
Then perhaps you can also see who it is I am thinking of?
Yes, indeed I can.
Well? Have the goodness to—?
You are thinking of that—that model you once used for— [Suddenly letting slip the train of thought.] Do you know, the people down at the hotel think she's mad.
Indeed? And pray what do the people down at the hotel think of you and the bear-killer?
That has nothing to do with the matter. [Continuing the former train of thought.] But it was this pale lady you were thinking of.
[Calmly.] Precisely, of her.—When I had no more use for her—and when, besides, she went away from me—vanished without a word—
Then you accepted me as a sort of makeshift, I suppose?
[More unfeelingly.] Something of the sort, to tell the truth, little Maia. For a year or a year and a half I had lived there lonely and brooding, and had put the last touch—the very last touch, to my work. "The Resurrection Day" went out over the world and brought me fame—and everything else that heart could desire. [With greater warmth.] But I no longer loved my own work. Men's laurels and incense nauseated me, till I could have rushed away in despair and hidden myself in the depths of the woods. [Looking at her.] You, who are a thought-reader—can you guess what then occurred to me?
[Lightly.] Yes, it occurred to you to make portrait-busts of gentlemen and ladies.
[Nods.] To order, yes. With animals' faces behind the masks. Those I threw in gratis—into the bargain, you understand. [Smiling.] But that was not precisely what I had in my mind.
What, then?
[Again serious.] It was this, that all the talk about the artist's vocation and the artist's mission, and so forth, began to strike me as being very empty, and hollow, and meaningless at bottom.
Then what would you put in its place?
Life, Maia.
Life?
Yes, is not life in sunshine and in beauty a hundred times better worth while than to hang about to the end of your days in a raw, damp hole, and wear yourself out in a perpetual struggle with lumps of clay and blocks of stone?
[With a little sigh.] Yes, I have always thought so, certainly.
And then I had become rich enough to live in luxury and in indolent, quivering sunshine. I was able to build myself the villa on the Lake of Taunitz, and the palazzo in the capital,—and all the rest of it.
[Taking up his tone.] And last but not least, you could afford to treat yourself to me, too. And you gave me leave to share in all your treasures.
[Jesting, so as to turn the conversation.] Did I not promise to take you up to a high enough mountain and show you all the glory of the world?
[With a gentle expression.] You have perhaps taken me up with you to a high enough mountain, Rubek—but you have not shown me all the glory of the world.
[With a laugh of irritation.] How insatiable you are, Maia.! Absolutely insatiable! [With a vehement outburst.] But do you know what is the most hopeless thing of all, Maia? Can you guess that?
[With quiet defiance.] Yes, I suppose it is that you have gone and tied yourself to me—for life.
I would not have expressed myself so heartlessly.
But you would have meant it just as heartlessly.
You have no clear idea of the inner workings of an artist's nature.
[Smiling and shaking her head.] Good heavens, I haven't even a clear idea of the inner workings of my own nature.
[Continuing undisturbed.] I live at such high speed, Maia. We live so, we artists. I, for my part, have lived through a whole lifetime in the few years we two have known each other. I have come to realise that I am not at all adapted for seeking happiness in indolent enjoyment. Life does not shape itself that way for me and those like me. I must go on working—producing one work after another—right up to my dying day. [Forcing himself to continue.] That is why I cannot get on with you any longer, Maia—not with you alone.
[Quietly.] Does that mean, in plain language, that you have grown tired of me?
[Bursts forth.] Yes, that is what it means! I have grown tired—intolerably tired and fretted and unstrung—in this life with you! Now you know it. [Controlling himself.] These are hard, ugly words I am using. I know that very well. And you are not at all to blame in this matter;—that I willingly admit. It is simply and solely I myself, who have once more undergone a revolution—[Half to himself]—and awakening to my real life.
[Involuntarily folding her hands.] Why in all the world should we not part then?
[Looks at her in astonishment.] Should you be willing to?
[Shrugging her shoulders.] Oh yes—if there's nothing else for it, then—
[Eagerly.] But there is something else for it. There is an alternative—
[Holding up her forefinger.] Now you are thinking of the pale lady again!
Yes, to tell the truth, I cannot help constantly thinking of her. Ever since I met her again. [A step nearer her.] For now I will tell you a secret, Maia.
Well?
[Touching his own breast.] In here, you see—in here I have a little bramah-locked casket. And in that casket all my sculptor's visions are stored up. But when she disappeared and left no trace, the lock of the casket snapped to. And she had the key—and she took it away with her.—You, little Maia, you had no key; so all that the casket contains must lie unused. And the years pass! And I have no means of getting at the treasure.
[Trying to repress a subtle smile.] Then get her to open the casket for you again—
[Not understanding.] Maia—?
MAIA. —for here she is, you see. And no doubt it's on account of this casket that she has come.
I have not said a single word to her on this subject!
[Looks innocently at him.] My dear Rubek—is it worth while to make all this fuss and commotion about so simple a matter?
Do you think this matter is so absolutely simple?
Yes, certainly I think so. Do you attach yourself to whoever you most require. [Nods to him.] I shall always manage to find a place for myself.
Where do you mean?
[Unconcerned, evasively.] Well—I need only take myself off to the villa, if it should be necessary. But it won't be; for in town—in all that great house of ours—there must surely, with a little good will, be room enough for three.
[Uncertainly.] And do you think that would work in the long run?
[In a light tone.] Very well, then—if it won't work, it won't. It is no good talking about it.
And what shall we do then, Maia—if it does not work?
[Untroubled.] Then we two will simply get out of each other's way—part entirely. I shall always find something new for myself, somewhere in the world. Something free! Free! Free!—No need to be anxious about that, Professor Rubek! [Suddenly points off to the right.] Look there! There we have her.
[Turning.] Where?
Out on the plain. Striding—like a marble stature. She is coming this way.
[Stands gazing with his hand over his eyes.] Does not she look like the Resurrection incarnate? [To himself.] And her I could displace—and move into the shade! Remodel her—. Fool that I was!
What do you mean by that?
[Putting the question aside.] Nothing. Nothing that you would understand.
[IRENE advances from the right over the upland. The childrenat their play have already caught sight of her and run tomeet her. She is now surrounded by them; some appear confidentand at ease, others uneasy and timid. She talks low to themand indicates that they are to go down to the hotel; sheherself will rest a little beside the brook. The childrenrun down over the slope to the left, half way to the back.IRENE goes up to the wall of rock, and lets the rillets ofthe cascade flow over her hands, cooling them.
[In a low voice.] Go down and speak to her alone, Rubek.
And where will you go in the meantime?
[Looking significantly at him.] Henceforth I shall go my own ways.
[She descends form the hillock and leaps over the brook, by aidof her alpenstock. She stops beside IRENE.
Professor Rubek is up there, waiting for you, madam.
What does he want?
He wants you to help him to open a casket that has snapped to.
Can I help him in that?
He says you are the only person that can.
Then I must try.
Yes, you really must, madam.
[She goes down by the path to the hotel.[In a little while PROFESSOR RUBEK comes down to IRENE, but stopswith the brook between them.
[After a short pause.] She—the other one—said that you had been waiting for me.
I have waited for you year after year—without myself knowing it.
I could not come to you, Arnold. I was lying down there, sleeping the long, deep, dreamful sleep.
But now you have awakened, Irene!
[Shakes her head.] I have the heavy, deep sleep still in my eyes.
You shall see that day will dawn and lighten for us both.
Do not believe that.
[Urgently.] I do believe it! And I know it! Now that I have found you again—
Risen from the grave.
Transfigured!
Only risen, Arnold. Not transfigured.