[He crosses over to her by means of stepping-stones below thecascade.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Where have you been all day, Irene?IRENE.[Pointing.] Far, far over there, on the great dead waste—PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Turning the conversation.] You have not your—your friend with you to-day, I see.IRENE.[Smiling.] My friend is keeping a close watch on me, none the less.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Can she?IRENE.[Glancing furtively around.] You may be sure she can—wherever I may go. She never loses sight of me— [Whispering.] Until, one fine sunny morning, I shall kill her.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Would you do that?IRENE.With the utmost delight—if only I could manage it.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Why do you want to?IRENE.Because she deals in witchcraft. [Mysteriously.] Only think, Arnold—she has changed herself into my shadow.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Trying to calm her.] Well, well, well—a shadow we must all have.IRENE.I am my own shadow. [With an outburst.] Do you not understand that!PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Sadly.] Yes, yes, Irene, I understand.[He seats himself on a stone beside the brook. She stands behindhim, leaning against the wall of rock.IRENE.[After a pause.] Why do you sit there turning your eyes away from me?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Softly, shaking his head.] I dare not—I dare not look at you.IRENE.Why dare you not look at me any more?PROFESSOR RUBEK.You have a shadow that tortures me. And I have the crushing weight of my conscience.IRENE.[With a glad cry of deliverance.] At last!PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Springs up.] Irene—what is it!IRENE.[Motioning him off.] Keep still, still, still! [Draws a deep breath and says, as though relieved of a burden.] There! Now they let me go. For this time.—Now we can sit down and talk as we used to—when I was alive.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Oh, if only we could talk as we used to.IRENE.Sit there, where you were sitting. I will sit here beside you.[He sits down again. She seats herself on another stone, closeto him.IRENE.[After a short interval of silence.] Now I have come back to you from the uttermost regions, Arnold.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Aye, truly, from an endless journey.IRENE.Come home to my lord and master—PROFESSOR RUBEK.To our home;—to our own home, Irene.IRENE.Have you looked for my coming every single day?PROFESSOR RUBEK.How dared I look for you?IRENE.[With a sidelong glance.] No, I suppose you dared not. For you understood nothing.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Was it really not for the sake of some one else that you all of a sudden disappeared from me in that way?IRENE.Might it not quite well be for your sake, Arnold?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Looks doubtfully at her.] I don't understand you—?IRENE.When I had served you with my soul and with my body—when the statue stood there finished—our child as you called it—then I laid at your feet the most precious sacrifice of all—by effacing myself for all time.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Bows his head.] And laying my life waste.IRENE.[Suddenly firing up.] It was just that I wanted! Never, never should you create anything again—after you had created that only child of ours.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Was it jealously that moved you, then?IRENE.[Coldly.] I think it was rather hatred.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Hatred? Hatred for me?IRENE.[Again vehemently.] Yes, for you—for the artist who had so lightly and carelessly taken a warm-blooded body, a young human life, and worn the soul out of it—because you needed it for a work of art.PROFESSOR RUBEK.And you can say that—you who threw yourself into my work with such saint-like passion and such ardent joy?—that work for which we two met together every morning, as for an act of worship.IRENE.[Coldly, as before.] I will tell you one thing, Arnold.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Well?IRENE.I never loved your art, before I met you.—Nor after either.PROFESSOR RUBEK.But the artist, Irene?IRENE.The artist I hate.PROFESSOR RUBEK.The artist in me too?IRENE.In you most of all. When I unclothed myself and stood for you, then I hated you, Arnold—PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Warmly.] That you did not, Irene! That is not true!IRENE.I hated you, because you could stand there so unmoved—PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Laughs.] Unmoved? Do you think so?IRENE. —at any rate so intolerably self-controlled. And because you were an artist and an artist only—not a man! [Changing to a tone full of warmth and feeling.] But that statue in the wet, living clay, that I loved—as it rose up, a vital human creature, out of those raw, shapeless masses—for that was our creation, our child. Mine and yours.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Sadly.] It was so in spirit and in truth.IRENE.Let me tell you, Arnold—it is for the sake of this child of ours that I have undertaken this long pilgrimage.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Suddenly alert.] For the statue's—?IRENE.Call it what you will. I call it our child.PROFESSOR RUBEK.And now you want to see it? Finished? In marble, which you always thought so cold? [Eagerly.] You do not know, perhaps, that it is installed in a great museum somewhere—far out in the world?IRENE.I have heard a sort of legend about it.PROFESSOR RUBEK.And museums were always a horror to you. You called them grave-vaults—IRENE.I will make a pilgrimage to the place where my soul and my child's soul lie buried.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Uneasy and alarmed.] You must never see that statue again! Do you hear, Irene! I implore you—! Never, never see it again!IRENE.Perhaps you think it would mean death to me a second time?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Clenching his hands together.] Oh, I don't know what I think.—But how could I ever imagine that you would fix your mind so immovably on that statue? You, who went away from me—before it was completed.IRENE.It was completed. That was why I could go away from you—and leave you alone.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Sits with his elbows upon his knees, rocking his head from side to side, with his hands before his eyes.] It was not what it afterwards became.IRENE.[Quietly but quick as lightning, half-unsheathes a narrow-bladed sharp knife which she carried in her breast, and asks in a hoarse whisper.] Arnold—have you done any evil to our child?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Evasively.] Any evil?—How can I be sure what you would call it?IRENE.[Breathless.] Tell me at once: what have you done to the child?PROFESSOR RUBEK.I will tell you, if you will sit and listen quietly to what I say.IRENE.[Hides the knife.] I will listen as quietly as a mother can when she—PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Interrupting.] And you must not look at me while I am telling you.IRENE.[Moves to a stone behind his back.] I will sit here, behind you.—Now tell me.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Takes his hands from before his eyes and gazes straight in front of him. When I had found you, I knew at once how I should make use of you for my life-work.IRENE."The Resurrection Day" you called your life-work.—I call it "our child."PROFESSOR RUBEK.I was young then—with no knowledge of life. The Resurrection, I thought, would be most beautifully and exquisitely figured as a young unsullied woman—with none of our earth-life's experiences—awakening to light and glory without having to put away from her anything ugly and impure.IRENE.[Quickly.] Yes—and so I stand there now, in our work?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Hesitating.] Not absolutely and entirely so, Irene.IRENE.[In rising excitement.] Not absolutely—? Do I not stand as I always stood for you?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Without answering.] I learned worldly wisdom in the years that followed, Irene. "The Resurrection Day" became in my mind's eye something more and something—something more complex. The little round plinth on which your figure stood erect and solitary—it no longer afforded room for all the imagery I now wanted to add—IRENE.[Groped for her knife, but desists.] What imagery did you add then? Tell me!PROFESSOR RUBEK.I imagined that which I saw with my eyes around me in the world. I had to include it—I could not help it, Irene. I expanded the plinth—made it wide and spacious. And on it I placed a segment of the curving, bursting earth. And up from the fissures of the soil there now swarm men and women with dimly-suggested animal-faces. Women and men—as I knew them in real life.IRENE.[In breathless suspense.] But in the middle of the rout there stands the young woman radiant with the joy of light?—Do I not stand so, Arnold?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Evasively.] Not quite in the middle. I had unfortunately to move that figure a little back. For the sake of the general effect, you understand. Otherwise it would have dominated the whole too much.IRENE.But the joy in the light still transfigures my face?PROFESSOR RUBEK.Yes, it does, Irene—in a way. A little subdued perhaps—as my altered idea required.IRENE.[Rising noiselessly.] That design expresses the life you now see, Arnold.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Yes, I suppose it does.IRENE.And in that design you have shifted me back, a little toned down—to serve as a background-figure—in a group.[She draws the knife.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Not a background-figure. Let us say, at most, a figure not quite in the foreground—or something of that sort.IRENE.[Whispers hoarsely.] There you uttered your own doom.[On the point of striking.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Turns and looks up at her.] Doom?IRENE.[Hastily hides the knife, and says as though choked with agony.] My whole soul—you and I—we, we, we and our child were in that solitary figure.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Eagerly, taking off his hat and drying the drops of sweat upon his brow.] Yes, but let me tell you, too, how I have placed myself in the group. In front, beside a fountain—as it were here—sits a man weighed down with guilt, who cannot quite free himself from the earth-crust. I call him remorse for a forfeited life. He sits there and dips his fingers in the purling stream—to wash them clean—and he is gnawed and tortured by the thought that never, never will he succeed. Never in all eternity will he attain to freedom and the new life. He will remain for ever prisoned in his hell.IRENE.[Hardly and coldly.] Poet!PROFESSOR RUBEK.Why poet?IRENE.Because you are nerveless and sluggish and full of forgiveness for all the sins of your life, in thought and in act. You have killed my soul—so you model yourself in remorse, and self-accusation, and penance—[Smiling.] —and with that you think your account is cleared.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Defiantly.] I am an artist, Irene. And I take no shame to myself for the frailties that perhaps cling to me. For I was born to be an artist, you see. And, do what I may, I shall never be anything else.IRENE.[Looks at him with a lurking evil smile, and says gently and softly.] You are a poet, Arnold. [Softly strokes his hair.] You dear, great, middle-aged child,—is it possible that you cannot see that!PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Annoyed.] Why do you keep on calling me a poet?IRENE.[With malign eyes.] Because there is something apologetic in the word, my friend. Something that suggests forgiveness of sins—and spreads a cloak over all frailty. [With a sudden change of tone.] But I was a human being—then! And I, too, had a life to live,—and a human destiny to fulfil. And all that, look you, I let slip—gave it all up in order to make myself your bondwoman.—Oh, it was self-murder—a deadly sin against myself! [Half whispering.] And that sin I can never expiate![She seats herself near him beside the brook, keeps close, thoughunnoticed, watch upon him, and, as though in absence of mind,plucks some flowers form the shrubs around them.IRENE.[With apparent self-control.] I should have borne children in the world—many children—real children—not such children as are hidden away in grave-vaults. That was my vocation. I ought never to have served you—poet.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Lost in recollection.] Yet those were beautiful days, Irene. Marvellously beautiful days—as I now look back upon them—IRENE.[Looking at him with a soft expression.] Can you remember a little word that you said—when you had finished—finished with me and with our child? [Nods to him.] Can you remember that little word, Arnold?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Looks inquiringly at her.] Did I say a little word then, which you still remember?IRENE.Yes, you did. Can you not recall it?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Shaking his head.] No, I can't say that I do. Not at the present moment, at any rate.IRENE.You took both my hands and pressed them warmly. And I stood there in breathless expectation. And then you said: "So now, Irene, I thank you from my heart. This," you said, "has been a priceless episode for me."PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Looks doubtfully at her.] Did I say "episode"? It is not a word I am in the habit of using.IRENE.You said "episode."PROFESSOR RUBEK.[With assumed cheerfulness.] Well, well—after all, it was in reality an episode.IRENE.[Curtly.] At that word I left you.PROFESSOR RUBEK.You take everything so painfully to heart, Irene.IRENE.[Drawing her hand over her forehead.] Perhaps you are right. Let us shake off all the hard things that go to the heart. [Plucks off the leaves of a mountain rose and strews them on the brook.] Look there, Arnold. There are our birds swimming.PROFESSOR RUBEK.What birds are they?IRENE.Can you not see? Of course they are flamingoes. Are they not rose-red?PROFESSOR RUBEK.Flamingoes do not swim. They only wade.IRENE.Then they are not flamingoes. They are sea-gulls.PROFESSOR RUBEK.They may be sea-gulls with red bills, yes. [Plucks broad green leaves and throws them into the brook.] Now I send out my ships after them.IRENE.But there must be no harpoon-men on board.PROFESSOR RUBEK.No, there shall be no harpoon-men. [Smiles to her.] Can you remember the summer when we used to sit like this outside the little peasant hut on the Lake of Taunitz?IRENE.[Nods.] On Saturday evenings, yes,—when we had finished our week's work—PROFESSOR RUBEK. —And taken the train out to the lake—to stay there over Sunday—IRENE.[With an evil gleam of hatred in her eyes.] It was an episode, Arnold.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[As if not hearing.] Then, too, you used to set birds swimming in the brook. They were water-lilies which you—IRENE.They were white swans.PROFESSOR RUBEK.I meant swans, yes. And I remember that I fastened a great furry leaf to one of the swans. It looked like a burdock-leaf—IRENE.And then it turned into Lohengrin's boat—with the swan yoked to it.PROFESSOR RUBEK.How fond you were of that game, Irene.IRENE.We played it over and over again.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Every single Saturday, I believe,—all the summer through.IRENE.You said I was the swan that drew your boat.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Did I say so? Yes, I daresay I did. [Absorbed in the game.] Just see how the sea-gulls are swimming down the stream!IRENE.[Laughing.] And all your ships have run ashore.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Throwing more leaves into the brook.] I have ships enough in reserve. [Follows the leaves with his eyes, throws more into the brook, and says after a pause.] Irene,—I have bought the little peasant hut beside the Lake of Taunitz.IRENE.Have you bought it? You often said you would, if you could afford it.PROFESSOR RUBEK.The day came when I could afford it easily enough; and so I bought it.IRENE.[With a sidelong look at him.] Then do you live out there now—in our old house?PROFESSOR RUBEK.No, I have had it pulled down long ago. And I have built myself a great, handsome, comfortable villa on the site—with a park around it. It is there that we— [Stops and corrects himself.] —there that I usually live during the summer.IRENE.[Mastering herself.] So you and—and the other one live out there now?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[With a touch of defiance.] Yes. When my wife and I are not travelling—as we are this year.IRENE.[Looking far before her.] Life was beautiful, beautiful by the Lake of Taunitz.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[As though looking back into himself.] And yet, Irene—IRENE.[Completing his thought.] —yet we two let slip all that life and its beauty.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Softly, urgently.] Does repentance come too late, now?IRENE.[Does not answer, but sits silent for a moment; then she points over the upland.] Look there, Arnold,—now the sun is going down behind the peaks. See what a red glow the level rays cast over all the heathery knolls out yonder.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Looks where she is pointing.] It is long since I have seen a sunset in the mountains.IRENE.Or a sunrise?PROFESSOR RUBEK.A sunrise I don't think I have ever seen.IRENE.[Smiles as though lost in recollection.] I once saw a marvellously lovely sunrise.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Did you? Where was that?IRENE.High, high up on a dizzy mountain-top.—You beguiled me up there by promising that I should see all the glory of the world if only I—[She stops suddenly.PROFESSOR RUBEK.If only you—? Well?IRENE.I did as you told me—went with you up to the heights. And there I fell upon my knees and worshipped you, and served you. [Is silent for a moment; then says softly.] Then I saw the sunrise.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Turning at him with a scornful smile.] With you—and the other woman?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Urgently.] With me—as in our days of creation. You could open all that is locked up in me. Can you not find it in your heart, Irene?IRENE.[Shaking her head.] I have no longer the key to you, Arnold.PROFESSOR RUBEK.You have the key! You and you alone possess it! [Beseechingly.] Help me—that I may be able to live my life over again!IRENE.[Immovable as before.] Empty dreams! Idle—dead dreams. For the life you and I led there is no resurrection.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Curtly, breaking off.] Then let us go on playing.IRENE.Yes, playing, playing—only playing![They sit and strew leaves and petals over the brook, where theyfloat and sail away.[Up the slope to the left at the back come ULFHEIM and MAIA inhunting costume. After them comes the SERVANT with the leashof dogs, with which he goes out to the right.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Catching sight of them.] Ah! There is little Maia, going out with the bear-hunter.IRENE.Your lady, yes.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Or the other's.MAIA.[Looks around as she is crossing the upland, sees the two sitting by the brook, and calls out.] Good-night, Professor! Dream of me. Now I am going off on my adventures!PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Calls back to her.] What sort of an adventure is this to be?MAIA.[Approaching.] I am going to let life take the place of all the rest.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Mockingly.] Aha! So you too are going to do that, little Maia?MAIA.Yes. And I've made a verse about it, and this is how it goes:[Sings triumphantly.]I am free! I am free! I am free!No more life in the prison for me!I am free as a bird! I am free!For I believe I have awakened now—at last.PROFESSOR RUBEK.It almost seems so.MAIA.[Drawing a deep breath.] Oh—how divinely light one feels on waking!PROFESSOR RUBEK.Good-night, Frau Maia—and good luck to—ULFHEIM.[Calls out, interposing.] Hush, hush!—for the devil's sake let's have none of your wizard wishes. Don't you see that we are going out to shoot—PROFESSOR RUBEK.What will you bring me home from the hunting, Maia?MAIA.You shall have a bird of prey to model. I shall wing one for you.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Laughs mockingly and bitterly.] Yes, to wing things—without knowing what you are doing—that has long been quite in your way.MAIA.[Tossing her head.] Oh, just let me take care of myself for the future, and I wish you then—! [Nods and laughs roguishly.] Good-bye—and a good, peaceful summer night on the upland!PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Jestingly.] Thanks! And all the ill-luck in the world over you and your hunting!ULFHEIM.[Roaring with laughter.] There now, that is a wish worth having!MAIA.[Laughing.] Thanks, thanks, thanks, Professor![They have both crossed the visible portion of the upland, and goout through the bushes to the right.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[After a short pause.] A summer night on the upland! Yes, that would have been life!IRENE.[Suddenly, with a wild expression in her eyes.] Will you spend a summer night on the upland—with me?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Stretching his arms wide.] Yes, yes,—come!IRENE.My adored lord and master!PROFESSOR RUBEK.Oh, Irene!IRENE.[Hoarsely, smiling and groping in her breast.] It will be only an episode— [Quickly, whispering.] Hush!—do not look round, Arnold!PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Also in a low voice.] What is it?IRENE.A face that is staring at me.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Turns involuntarily.] Where! [With a start.] Ah—![The SISTER OF MERCY's head is partly visible among the bushesbeside the descent to the left. Her eyes are immovably fixedon IRENE.IRENE.[Rises and says softly.] We must part then. No, you must remain sitting. Do you hear? You must not go with me. [Bends over him and whispers.] Till we meet again—to-night—on the upland.PROFESSOR RUBEK.And you will come, Irene?IRENE.Yes, surely I will come. Wait for me here.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Repeats dreamily.] Summer night on the upland. With you. With you. [His eyes meet hers.] Oh, Irene—that might have been our life.—And that we have forfeited—we two.IRENE.We see the irretrievable only when—[Breaks off.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Looks inquiringly at her.] When—?IRENE.When we dead awaken.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Shakes his head mournfully.] What do we really see then?IRENE.We see that we have never lived.[She goes towards the slope and descends.[The SISTER OF MERCY makes way for her and follows her.PROFESSOR RUBEK remains sitting motionless beside the brook.MAIA.[Is heard singing triumphantly among the hills.]I am free! I am free! I am free!No more life in the prison for me!I am free as a bird! I am free!ACT THIRD.[A wild riven mountain-side, with sheer precipices at the back.Snow-clad peaks rise to the right, and lose themselves in driftingmists. To the left, on a stone-scree, stands an old, half-ruinedhut. It is early morning. Dawn is breaking. The sun has notyet risen.[MAIA comes, flushed and irritated, down over the stone-scree on theleft. ULFHEIM follows, half angry, half laughing, holding herfast by the sleeve.MAIA.[Trying to tear herself loose.] Let me go! Let me go, I say!ULFHEIM.Come, Come! are you going to bite now? You're as snappish as a wolf.MAIA.[Striking him over the hand.] Let me, I tell you? And be quiet!ULFHEIM.No, confound me if I will!MAIA.Then I will not go another step with you. Do you hear?—not a single step!ULFHEIM.Ho, ho! How can you get away from me, here, on the wild mountain-side?MAIA.I will jump over the precipice yonder, if need be—ULFHEIM.And mangle and mash yourself up into dogs'-meat! A juicy morsel! [Lets go his hold.] As you please. Jump over the precipice if you want to. It's a dizzy drop. There's only one narrow footpath down it, and that's almost impassable.MAIA.[Dusts her skirt with her hand, and looks at him with angry eyes.] Well, you are a nice one to go hunting with!ULFHEIM.Say rather, sporting.MAIA.Oh! So you call this sport, do you?ULFHEIM.Yes, I venture to take that liberty. It is the sort of sport I like best of all.MAIA.[Tossing her head.] Well—I must say! [After a pause; looks searchingly at him.] Why did you let the dogs loose up there?ULFHEIM.[Blinking his eyes and smiling.] So that they too might do a little hunting on their own account, don't you see?MAIA.There's not a word of truth in that! It wasn't for the dogs' sake that you let them go.ULFHEIM.[Still smiling.] Well, why did I let them go then? Let us hear.MAIA.You let them go because you wanted to get rid of Lars. He was to run after them and bring them in again, you said. And in the meant-time—. Oh, it was a pretty way to behave!ULFHEIM.In the meantime?MAIA.[Curtly breaking off.] No matter!ULFHEIM.[In a confidential tone.] Lars won't find them. You may safely swear to that. He won't come with them before the time's up.MAIA.[Looking angrily at him.] No, I daresay not.ULFHEIM.[Catching at her arm.] For Lars—he knows my—my methods of sport, you see.MAIA.[Eludes him, and measures him with a glance.] Do you know what you look like, Mr. Ulfheim?ULFHEIM.I should think I'm probably most like myself.MAIA.Yes, there you're exactly right. For you're the living image of a faun.ULFHEIM.A faun?MAIA.Yes, precisely; a faun.ULFHEIM.A faun! Isn't that a sort of monster? Or a kind of a wood demon, as you might call it?MAIA.Yes, just the sort of creature you are. A thing with a goat's beard and goat-legs. Yes, and the faun has horns too!ULFHEIM.So, so!—has he horns too?MAIA.A pair of ugly horns, just like yours, yes.ULFHEIM.Can you see the poor little hornsIhave?MAIA.Yes, I seem to see them quite plainly.ULFHEIM.[Taking the dogs' leash out of his pocket.] Then I had better see about tying you.MAIA.Have you gone quite mad? Would you tie me?ULFHEIM.If I am a demon, let me be a demon! So that's the way of it! You can see the horns, can you?MAIA.[Soothingly.] There, there, there! Now try to behave nicely, Mr. Ulfheim. [Breaking off.] But what has become of that hunting-castle of yours, that you boasted so much of? You said it lay somewhere hereabouts.ULFHEIM.[Points with a flourish to the hut.] There you have it, before your very eyes.MAIA.[Looks at him.] That old pig-stye!ULFHEIM.[Laughing in his beard.] It has harboured more than one king's daughter, I can tell you.MAIA.Was it there that that horrid man you told me about came to the king's daughter in the form of a bear?ULFHEIM.Yes, my fair companion of the chase—this is the scene. [With a gesture of invitation.] If you would deign to enter—MAIA.Isch! If ever I set foot in it—! Isch!ULFHEIM.Oh, two people can doze away a summer night in there comfortably enough. Or a whole summer, if it comes to that!MAIA.Thanks! One would need to have a pretty strong taste for that kind of thing. [Impatiently.] But now I am tired both of you and the hunting expedition. Now I am going down to the hotel—before people awaken down there.ULFHEIM.How do you propose to get down from here?MAIA.That's your affair. There must be a way down somewhere or other, I suppose.ULFHEIM.[Pointing towards the back.] Oh, certainly! There is a sort of way—right down the face of the precipice yonder—MAIA.There, you see. With a little goodwill—ULFHEIM. —but just you try if you dare go that way.MAIA.[Doubtfully.] Do you think I can't?ULFHEIM.Never in this world—if you don't let me help you.MAIA.[Uneasily.] Why, then come and help me! What else are you here for?ULFHEIM.Would you rather I should take you on my back—?MAIA.Nonsense!ULFHEIM. —or carry you in my arms?MAIA.Now do stop talking that rubbish!ULFHEIM.[With suppressed exasperation.] I once took a young girl—lifted her up from the mire of the streets and carried her in my arms. Next my heart I carried her. So I would have borne her all through life—lest haply she should dash her foot against a stone. For her shoes were worn very thin when I found her—MAIA.And yet you took her up and carried her next your heart?ULFHEIM.Took her up out of the gutter and carried her as high and as carefully as I could. [With a growling laugh.] And do you know what I got for my reward?MAIA.No. What did you get?ULFHEIM.[Looks at her, smiles and nods.] I got the horns! The horns that you can see so plainly. Is not that a comical story, madam bear-murderess?MAIA.Oh yes, comical enough! But I know another story that is still more comical.ULFHEIM.How does that story go?MAIA.This is how it goes. There was once a stupid girl, who had both a father and a mother—but a rather poverty-stricken home. Then there came a high and mighty seigneur into the midst of all this poverty. And he took the girl in his arms—as you did—and travelled far, far away with her—ULFHEIM.Was she so anxious to be with him?MAIA.Yes, for she was stupid, you see.ULFHEIM.And he, no doubt, was a brilliant and beautiful personage?MAIA.Oh, no, he wasn't so superlatively beautiful either. But he pretended that he would take her with him to the top of the highest of mountains, where there were light and sunshine without end.ULFHEIM.So he was a mountaineer, was he, that man?MAIA.Yes, he was—in his way.ULFHEIM.And then he took the girl up with him—?MAIA.[With a toss of the head.] Took her up with him finely, you may be sure! Oh no! he beguiled her into a cold, clammy cage, where—as it seemed to her—there was neither sunlight nor fresh air, but only gilding and great petrified ghosts of people all around the walls.ULFHEIM.Devil take me, but it served her right!MAIA.Yes, but don't you think it's quite a comical story, all the same?ULFHEIM.[Looks at her moment.] Now listen to me, my good companion of the chase—MAIA.Well, what it is now?ULFHEIM.Should not we two tack our poor shreds of life together?MAIA.Is his worship inclined to set up as a patching-tailor?ULFHEIM.Yes, indeed he is. Might not we two try to draw the rags together here and there—so as to make some sort of a human life out of them?MAIA.And when the poor tatters were quite worn out—what then?ULFHEIM.[With a large gesture.] Then there we shall stand, free and serene—as the man and woman we really are!MAIA.[Laughing.] You with your goat-legs yes!ULFHEIM.And you with your—. Well, let that pass.MAIA.Yes, come—let us pass—on.ULFHEIM.Stop! Whither away, comrade?MAIA.Down to the hotel, of course.ULFHEIM.And afterward?MAIA.Then we'll take a polite leave of each other, with thanks for pleasant company.ULFHEIM.Can we part, we two? Do you think we can?MAIA.Yes, you didn't manage to tie me up, you know.ULFHEIM.I have a castle to offer you—MAIA.[Pointing to the hut.] A fellow to that one?ULFHEIM.It has not fallen to ruin yet.MAIA.And all the glory of the world, perhaps?ULFHEIM.A castle, I tell you—MAIA.Thanks! I have had enough of castles.ULFHEIM. —with splendid hunting-grounds stretching for miles around it.MAIA.Are there works of art too in this castle?ULFHEIM.[Slowly.] Well, no—it's true there are no works of art; but—MAIA.[Relieved.] Ah! that's one good thing, at any rate!ULFHEIM.Will you go with me, then—as far and as long as I want you?MAIA.There is a tame bird of prey keeping watch upon me.ULFHEIM.[Wildly.] We'll put a bullet in his wing, Maia!MAIA.[Looks at him a moment, and says resolutely.] Come then, and carry me down into the depths.ULFHEIM.[Puts his arm round her waist.] It is high time! The mist is upon us!MAIA.Is the way down terribly dangerous?ULFHEIM.The mountain is more dangerous still.
[He crosses over to her by means of stepping-stones below thecascade.
Where have you been all day, Irene?
[Pointing.] Far, far over there, on the great dead waste—
[Turning the conversation.] You have not your—your friend with you to-day, I see.
[Smiling.] My friend is keeping a close watch on me, none the less.
Can she?
[Glancing furtively around.] You may be sure she can—wherever I may go. She never loses sight of me— [Whispering.] Until, one fine sunny morning, I shall kill her.
Would you do that?
With the utmost delight—if only I could manage it.
Why do you want to?
Because she deals in witchcraft. [Mysteriously.] Only think, Arnold—she has changed herself into my shadow.
[Trying to calm her.] Well, well, well—a shadow we must all have.
I am my own shadow. [With an outburst.] Do you not understand that!
[Sadly.] Yes, yes, Irene, I understand.
[He seats himself on a stone beside the brook. She stands behindhim, leaning against the wall of rock.
[After a pause.] Why do you sit there turning your eyes away from me?
[Softly, shaking his head.] I dare not—I dare not look at you.
Why dare you not look at me any more?
You have a shadow that tortures me. And I have the crushing weight of my conscience.
[With a glad cry of deliverance.] At last!
[Springs up.] Irene—what is it!
[Motioning him off.] Keep still, still, still! [Draws a deep breath and says, as though relieved of a burden.] There! Now they let me go. For this time.—Now we can sit down and talk as we used to—when I was alive.
Oh, if only we could talk as we used to.
Sit there, where you were sitting. I will sit here beside you.
[He sits down again. She seats herself on another stone, closeto him.
[After a short interval of silence.] Now I have come back to you from the uttermost regions, Arnold.
Aye, truly, from an endless journey.
Come home to my lord and master—
To our home;—to our own home, Irene.
Have you looked for my coming every single day?
How dared I look for you?
[With a sidelong glance.] No, I suppose you dared not. For you understood nothing.
Was it really not for the sake of some one else that you all of a sudden disappeared from me in that way?
Might it not quite well be for your sake, Arnold?
[Looks doubtfully at her.] I don't understand you—?
When I had served you with my soul and with my body—when the statue stood there finished—our child as you called it—then I laid at your feet the most precious sacrifice of all—by effacing myself for all time.
[Bows his head.] And laying my life waste.
[Suddenly firing up.] It was just that I wanted! Never, never should you create anything again—after you had created that only child of ours.
Was it jealously that moved you, then?
[Coldly.] I think it was rather hatred.
Hatred? Hatred for me?
[Again vehemently.] Yes, for you—for the artist who had so lightly and carelessly taken a warm-blooded body, a young human life, and worn the soul out of it—because you needed it for a work of art.
And you can say that—you who threw yourself into my work with such saint-like passion and such ardent joy?—that work for which we two met together every morning, as for an act of worship.
[Coldly, as before.] I will tell you one thing, Arnold.
Well?
I never loved your art, before I met you.—Nor after either.
But the artist, Irene?
The artist I hate.
The artist in me too?
In you most of all. When I unclothed myself and stood for you, then I hated you, Arnold—
[Warmly.] That you did not, Irene! That is not true!
I hated you, because you could stand there so unmoved—
[Laughs.] Unmoved? Do you think so?
IRENE. —at any rate so intolerably self-controlled. And because you were an artist and an artist only—not a man! [Changing to a tone full of warmth and feeling.] But that statue in the wet, living clay, that I loved—as it rose up, a vital human creature, out of those raw, shapeless masses—for that was our creation, our child. Mine and yours.
[Sadly.] It was so in spirit and in truth.
Let me tell you, Arnold—it is for the sake of this child of ours that I have undertaken this long pilgrimage.
[Suddenly alert.] For the statue's—?
Call it what you will. I call it our child.
And now you want to see it? Finished? In marble, which you always thought so cold? [Eagerly.] You do not know, perhaps, that it is installed in a great museum somewhere—far out in the world?
I have heard a sort of legend about it.
And museums were always a horror to you. You called them grave-vaults—
I will make a pilgrimage to the place where my soul and my child's soul lie buried.
[Uneasy and alarmed.] You must never see that statue again! Do you hear, Irene! I implore you—! Never, never see it again!
Perhaps you think it would mean death to me a second time?
[Clenching his hands together.] Oh, I don't know what I think.—But how could I ever imagine that you would fix your mind so immovably on that statue? You, who went away from me—before it was completed.
It was completed. That was why I could go away from you—and leave you alone.
[Sits with his elbows upon his knees, rocking his head from side to side, with his hands before his eyes.] It was not what it afterwards became.
[Quietly but quick as lightning, half-unsheathes a narrow-bladed sharp knife which she carried in her breast, and asks in a hoarse whisper.] Arnold—have you done any evil to our child?
[Evasively.] Any evil?—How can I be sure what you would call it?
[Breathless.] Tell me at once: what have you done to the child?
I will tell you, if you will sit and listen quietly to what I say.
[Hides the knife.] I will listen as quietly as a mother can when she—
[Interrupting.] And you must not look at me while I am telling you.
[Moves to a stone behind his back.] I will sit here, behind you.—Now tell me.
[Takes his hands from before his eyes and gazes straight in front of him. When I had found you, I knew at once how I should make use of you for my life-work.
"The Resurrection Day" you called your life-work.—I call it "our child."
I was young then—with no knowledge of life. The Resurrection, I thought, would be most beautifully and exquisitely figured as a young unsullied woman—with none of our earth-life's experiences—awakening to light and glory without having to put away from her anything ugly and impure.
[Quickly.] Yes—and so I stand there now, in our work?
[Hesitating.] Not absolutely and entirely so, Irene.
[In rising excitement.] Not absolutely—? Do I not stand as I always stood for you?
[Without answering.] I learned worldly wisdom in the years that followed, Irene. "The Resurrection Day" became in my mind's eye something more and something—something more complex. The little round plinth on which your figure stood erect and solitary—it no longer afforded room for all the imagery I now wanted to add—
[Groped for her knife, but desists.] What imagery did you add then? Tell me!
I imagined that which I saw with my eyes around me in the world. I had to include it—I could not help it, Irene. I expanded the plinth—made it wide and spacious. And on it I placed a segment of the curving, bursting earth. And up from the fissures of the soil there now swarm men and women with dimly-suggested animal-faces. Women and men—as I knew them in real life.
[In breathless suspense.] But in the middle of the rout there stands the young woman radiant with the joy of light?—Do I not stand so, Arnold?
[Evasively.] Not quite in the middle. I had unfortunately to move that figure a little back. For the sake of the general effect, you understand. Otherwise it would have dominated the whole too much.
But the joy in the light still transfigures my face?
Yes, it does, Irene—in a way. A little subdued perhaps—as my altered idea required.
[Rising noiselessly.] That design expresses the life you now see, Arnold.
Yes, I suppose it does.
And in that design you have shifted me back, a little toned down—to serve as a background-figure—in a group.
[She draws the knife.
Not a background-figure. Let us say, at most, a figure not quite in the foreground—or something of that sort.
[Whispers hoarsely.] There you uttered your own doom.
[On the point of striking.
[Turns and looks up at her.] Doom?
[Hastily hides the knife, and says as though choked with agony.] My whole soul—you and I—we, we, we and our child were in that solitary figure.
[Eagerly, taking off his hat and drying the drops of sweat upon his brow.] Yes, but let me tell you, too, how I have placed myself in the group. In front, beside a fountain—as it were here—sits a man weighed down with guilt, who cannot quite free himself from the earth-crust. I call him remorse for a forfeited life. He sits there and dips his fingers in the purling stream—to wash them clean—and he is gnawed and tortured by the thought that never, never will he succeed. Never in all eternity will he attain to freedom and the new life. He will remain for ever prisoned in his hell.
[Hardly and coldly.] Poet!
Why poet?
Because you are nerveless and sluggish and full of forgiveness for all the sins of your life, in thought and in act. You have killed my soul—so you model yourself in remorse, and self-accusation, and penance—[Smiling.] —and with that you think your account is cleared.
[Defiantly.] I am an artist, Irene. And I take no shame to myself for the frailties that perhaps cling to me. For I was born to be an artist, you see. And, do what I may, I shall never be anything else.
[Looks at him with a lurking evil smile, and says gently and softly.] You are a poet, Arnold. [Softly strokes his hair.] You dear, great, middle-aged child,—is it possible that you cannot see that!
[Annoyed.] Why do you keep on calling me a poet?
[With malign eyes.] Because there is something apologetic in the word, my friend. Something that suggests forgiveness of sins—and spreads a cloak over all frailty. [With a sudden change of tone.] But I was a human being—then! And I, too, had a life to live,—and a human destiny to fulfil. And all that, look you, I let slip—gave it all up in order to make myself your bondwoman.—Oh, it was self-murder—a deadly sin against myself! [Half whispering.] And that sin I can never expiate!
[She seats herself near him beside the brook, keeps close, thoughunnoticed, watch upon him, and, as though in absence of mind,plucks some flowers form the shrubs around them.
[With apparent self-control.] I should have borne children in the world—many children—real children—not such children as are hidden away in grave-vaults. That was my vocation. I ought never to have served you—poet.
[Lost in recollection.] Yet those were beautiful days, Irene. Marvellously beautiful days—as I now look back upon them—
[Looking at him with a soft expression.] Can you remember a little word that you said—when you had finished—finished with me and with our child? [Nods to him.] Can you remember that little word, Arnold?
[Looks inquiringly at her.] Did I say a little word then, which you still remember?
Yes, you did. Can you not recall it?
[Shaking his head.] No, I can't say that I do. Not at the present moment, at any rate.
You took both my hands and pressed them warmly. And I stood there in breathless expectation. And then you said: "So now, Irene, I thank you from my heart. This," you said, "has been a priceless episode for me."
[Looks doubtfully at her.] Did I say "episode"? It is not a word I am in the habit of using.
You said "episode."
[With assumed cheerfulness.] Well, well—after all, it was in reality an episode.
[Curtly.] At that word I left you.
You take everything so painfully to heart, Irene.
[Drawing her hand over her forehead.] Perhaps you are right. Let us shake off all the hard things that go to the heart. [Plucks off the leaves of a mountain rose and strews them on the brook.] Look there, Arnold. There are our birds swimming.
What birds are they?
Can you not see? Of course they are flamingoes. Are they not rose-red?
Flamingoes do not swim. They only wade.
Then they are not flamingoes. They are sea-gulls.
They may be sea-gulls with red bills, yes. [Plucks broad green leaves and throws them into the brook.] Now I send out my ships after them.
But there must be no harpoon-men on board.
No, there shall be no harpoon-men. [Smiles to her.] Can you remember the summer when we used to sit like this outside the little peasant hut on the Lake of Taunitz?
[Nods.] On Saturday evenings, yes,—when we had finished our week's work—
PROFESSOR RUBEK. —And taken the train out to the lake—to stay there over Sunday—
[With an evil gleam of hatred in her eyes.] It was an episode, Arnold.
[As if not hearing.] Then, too, you used to set birds swimming in the brook. They were water-lilies which you—
They were white swans.
I meant swans, yes. And I remember that I fastened a great furry leaf to one of the swans. It looked like a burdock-leaf—
And then it turned into Lohengrin's boat—with the swan yoked to it.
How fond you were of that game, Irene.
We played it over and over again.
Every single Saturday, I believe,—all the summer through.
You said I was the swan that drew your boat.
Did I say so? Yes, I daresay I did. [Absorbed in the game.] Just see how the sea-gulls are swimming down the stream!
[Laughing.] And all your ships have run ashore.
[Throwing more leaves into the brook.] I have ships enough in reserve. [Follows the leaves with his eyes, throws more into the brook, and says after a pause.] Irene,—I have bought the little peasant hut beside the Lake of Taunitz.
Have you bought it? You often said you would, if you could afford it.
The day came when I could afford it easily enough; and so I bought it.
[With a sidelong look at him.] Then do you live out there now—in our old house?
No, I have had it pulled down long ago. And I have built myself a great, handsome, comfortable villa on the site—with a park around it. It is there that we— [Stops and corrects himself.] —there that I usually live during the summer.
[Mastering herself.] So you and—and the other one live out there now?
[With a touch of defiance.] Yes. When my wife and I are not travelling—as we are this year.
[Looking far before her.] Life was beautiful, beautiful by the Lake of Taunitz.
[As though looking back into himself.] And yet, Irene—
[Completing his thought.] —yet we two let slip all that life and its beauty.
[Softly, urgently.] Does repentance come too late, now?
[Does not answer, but sits silent for a moment; then she points over the upland.] Look there, Arnold,—now the sun is going down behind the peaks. See what a red glow the level rays cast over all the heathery knolls out yonder.
[Looks where she is pointing.] It is long since I have seen a sunset in the mountains.
Or a sunrise?
A sunrise I don't think I have ever seen.
[Smiles as though lost in recollection.] I once saw a marvellously lovely sunrise.
Did you? Where was that?
High, high up on a dizzy mountain-top.—You beguiled me up there by promising that I should see all the glory of the world if only I—
[She stops suddenly.
If only you—? Well?
I did as you told me—went with you up to the heights. And there I fell upon my knees and worshipped you, and served you. [Is silent for a moment; then says softly.] Then I saw the sunrise.
[Turning at him with a scornful smile.] With you—and the other woman?
[Urgently.] With me—as in our days of creation. You could open all that is locked up in me. Can you not find it in your heart, Irene?
[Shaking her head.] I have no longer the key to you, Arnold.
You have the key! You and you alone possess it! [Beseechingly.] Help me—that I may be able to live my life over again!
[Immovable as before.] Empty dreams! Idle—dead dreams. For the life you and I led there is no resurrection.
[Curtly, breaking off.] Then let us go on playing.
Yes, playing, playing—only playing!
[They sit and strew leaves and petals over the brook, where theyfloat and sail away.[Up the slope to the left at the back come ULFHEIM and MAIA inhunting costume. After them comes the SERVANT with the leashof dogs, with which he goes out to the right.
[Catching sight of them.] Ah! There is little Maia, going out with the bear-hunter.
Your lady, yes.
Or the other's.
[Looks around as she is crossing the upland, sees the two sitting by the brook, and calls out.] Good-night, Professor! Dream of me. Now I am going off on my adventures!
[Calls back to her.] What sort of an adventure is this to be?
[Approaching.] I am going to let life take the place of all the rest.
[Mockingly.] Aha! So you too are going to do that, little Maia?
Yes. And I've made a verse about it, and this is how it goes:
[Sings triumphantly.]I am free! I am free! I am free!No more life in the prison for me!I am free as a bird! I am free!For I believe I have awakened now—at last.
It almost seems so.
[Drawing a deep breath.] Oh—how divinely light one feels on waking!
Good-night, Frau Maia—and good luck to—
[Calls out, interposing.] Hush, hush!—for the devil's sake let's have none of your wizard wishes. Don't you see that we are going out to shoot—
What will you bring me home from the hunting, Maia?
You shall have a bird of prey to model. I shall wing one for you.
[Laughs mockingly and bitterly.] Yes, to wing things—without knowing what you are doing—that has long been quite in your way.
[Tossing her head.] Oh, just let me take care of myself for the future, and I wish you then—! [Nods and laughs roguishly.] Good-bye—and a good, peaceful summer night on the upland!
[Jestingly.] Thanks! And all the ill-luck in the world over you and your hunting!
[Roaring with laughter.] There now, that is a wish worth having!
[Laughing.] Thanks, thanks, thanks, Professor!
[They have both crossed the visible portion of the upland, and goout through the bushes to the right.
[After a short pause.] A summer night on the upland! Yes, that would have been life!
[Suddenly, with a wild expression in her eyes.] Will you spend a summer night on the upland—with me?
[Stretching his arms wide.] Yes, yes,—come!
My adored lord and master!
Oh, Irene!
[Hoarsely, smiling and groping in her breast.] It will be only an episode— [Quickly, whispering.] Hush!—do not look round, Arnold!
[Also in a low voice.] What is it?
A face that is staring at me.
[Turns involuntarily.] Where! [With a start.] Ah—!
[The SISTER OF MERCY's head is partly visible among the bushesbeside the descent to the left. Her eyes are immovably fixedon IRENE.
[Rises and says softly.] We must part then. No, you must remain sitting. Do you hear? You must not go with me. [Bends over him and whispers.] Till we meet again—to-night—on the upland.
And you will come, Irene?
Yes, surely I will come. Wait for me here.
[Repeats dreamily.] Summer night on the upland. With you. With you. [His eyes meet hers.] Oh, Irene—that might have been our life.—And that we have forfeited—we two.
We see the irretrievable only when—
[Breaks off.
[Looks inquiringly at her.] When—?
When we dead awaken.
[Shakes his head mournfully.] What do we really see then?
We see that we have never lived.
[She goes towards the slope and descends.[The SISTER OF MERCY makes way for her and follows her.PROFESSOR RUBEK remains sitting motionless beside the brook.
[Is heard singing triumphantly among the hills.]
I am free! I am free! I am free!No more life in the prison for me!I am free as a bird! I am free!
[A wild riven mountain-side, with sheer precipices at the back.Snow-clad peaks rise to the right, and lose themselves in driftingmists. To the left, on a stone-scree, stands an old, half-ruinedhut. It is early morning. Dawn is breaking. The sun has notyet risen.
[MAIA comes, flushed and irritated, down over the stone-scree on theleft. ULFHEIM follows, half angry, half laughing, holding herfast by the sleeve.
[Trying to tear herself loose.] Let me go! Let me go, I say!
Come, Come! are you going to bite now? You're as snappish as a wolf.
[Striking him over the hand.] Let me, I tell you? And be quiet!
No, confound me if I will!
Then I will not go another step with you. Do you hear?—not a single step!
Ho, ho! How can you get away from me, here, on the wild mountain-side?
I will jump over the precipice yonder, if need be—
And mangle and mash yourself up into dogs'-meat! A juicy morsel! [Lets go his hold.] As you please. Jump over the precipice if you want to. It's a dizzy drop. There's only one narrow footpath down it, and that's almost impassable.
[Dusts her skirt with her hand, and looks at him with angry eyes.] Well, you are a nice one to go hunting with!
Say rather, sporting.
Oh! So you call this sport, do you?
Yes, I venture to take that liberty. It is the sort of sport I like best of all.
[Tossing her head.] Well—I must say! [After a pause; looks searchingly at him.] Why did you let the dogs loose up there?
[Blinking his eyes and smiling.] So that they too might do a little hunting on their own account, don't you see?
There's not a word of truth in that! It wasn't for the dogs' sake that you let them go.
[Still smiling.] Well, why did I let them go then? Let us hear.
You let them go because you wanted to get rid of Lars. He was to run after them and bring them in again, you said. And in the meant-time—. Oh, it was a pretty way to behave!
In the meantime?
[Curtly breaking off.] No matter!
[In a confidential tone.] Lars won't find them. You may safely swear to that. He won't come with them before the time's up.
[Looking angrily at him.] No, I daresay not.
[Catching at her arm.] For Lars—he knows my—my methods of sport, you see.
[Eludes him, and measures him with a glance.] Do you know what you look like, Mr. Ulfheim?
I should think I'm probably most like myself.
Yes, there you're exactly right. For you're the living image of a faun.
A faun?
Yes, precisely; a faun.
A faun! Isn't that a sort of monster? Or a kind of a wood demon, as you might call it?
Yes, just the sort of creature you are. A thing with a goat's beard and goat-legs. Yes, and the faun has horns too!
So, so!—has he horns too?
A pair of ugly horns, just like yours, yes.
Can you see the poor little hornsIhave?
Yes, I seem to see them quite plainly.
[Taking the dogs' leash out of his pocket.] Then I had better see about tying you.
Have you gone quite mad? Would you tie me?
If I am a demon, let me be a demon! So that's the way of it! You can see the horns, can you?
[Soothingly.] There, there, there! Now try to behave nicely, Mr. Ulfheim. [Breaking off.] But what has become of that hunting-castle of yours, that you boasted so much of? You said it lay somewhere hereabouts.
[Points with a flourish to the hut.] There you have it, before your very eyes.
[Looks at him.] That old pig-stye!
[Laughing in his beard.] It has harboured more than one king's daughter, I can tell you.
Was it there that that horrid man you told me about came to the king's daughter in the form of a bear?
Yes, my fair companion of the chase—this is the scene. [With a gesture of invitation.] If you would deign to enter—
Isch! If ever I set foot in it—! Isch!
Oh, two people can doze away a summer night in there comfortably enough. Or a whole summer, if it comes to that!
Thanks! One would need to have a pretty strong taste for that kind of thing. [Impatiently.] But now I am tired both of you and the hunting expedition. Now I am going down to the hotel—before people awaken down there.
How do you propose to get down from here?
That's your affair. There must be a way down somewhere or other, I suppose.
[Pointing towards the back.] Oh, certainly! There is a sort of way—right down the face of the precipice yonder—
There, you see. With a little goodwill—
ULFHEIM. —but just you try if you dare go that way.
[Doubtfully.] Do you think I can't?
Never in this world—if you don't let me help you.
[Uneasily.] Why, then come and help me! What else are you here for?
Would you rather I should take you on my back—?
Nonsense!
ULFHEIM. —or carry you in my arms?
Now do stop talking that rubbish!
[With suppressed exasperation.] I once took a young girl—lifted her up from the mire of the streets and carried her in my arms. Next my heart I carried her. So I would have borne her all through life—lest haply she should dash her foot against a stone. For her shoes were worn very thin when I found her—
And yet you took her up and carried her next your heart?
Took her up out of the gutter and carried her as high and as carefully as I could. [With a growling laugh.] And do you know what I got for my reward?
No. What did you get?
[Looks at her, smiles and nods.] I got the horns! The horns that you can see so plainly. Is not that a comical story, madam bear-murderess?
Oh yes, comical enough! But I know another story that is still more comical.
How does that story go?
This is how it goes. There was once a stupid girl, who had both a father and a mother—but a rather poverty-stricken home. Then there came a high and mighty seigneur into the midst of all this poverty. And he took the girl in his arms—as you did—and travelled far, far away with her—
Was she so anxious to be with him?
Yes, for she was stupid, you see.
And he, no doubt, was a brilliant and beautiful personage?
Oh, no, he wasn't so superlatively beautiful either. But he pretended that he would take her with him to the top of the highest of mountains, where there were light and sunshine without end.
So he was a mountaineer, was he, that man?
Yes, he was—in his way.
And then he took the girl up with him—?
[With a toss of the head.] Took her up with him finely, you may be sure! Oh no! he beguiled her into a cold, clammy cage, where—as it seemed to her—there was neither sunlight nor fresh air, but only gilding and great petrified ghosts of people all around the walls.
Devil take me, but it served her right!
Yes, but don't you think it's quite a comical story, all the same?
[Looks at her moment.] Now listen to me, my good companion of the chase—
Well, what it is now?
Should not we two tack our poor shreds of life together?
Is his worship inclined to set up as a patching-tailor?
Yes, indeed he is. Might not we two try to draw the rags together here and there—so as to make some sort of a human life out of them?
And when the poor tatters were quite worn out—what then?
[With a large gesture.] Then there we shall stand, free and serene—as the man and woman we really are!
[Laughing.] You with your goat-legs yes!
And you with your—. Well, let that pass.
Yes, come—let us pass—on.
Stop! Whither away, comrade?
Down to the hotel, of course.
And afterward?
Then we'll take a polite leave of each other, with thanks for pleasant company.
Can we part, we two? Do you think we can?
Yes, you didn't manage to tie me up, you know.
I have a castle to offer you—
[Pointing to the hut.] A fellow to that one?
It has not fallen to ruin yet.
And all the glory of the world, perhaps?
A castle, I tell you—
Thanks! I have had enough of castles.
ULFHEIM. —with splendid hunting-grounds stretching for miles around it.
Are there works of art too in this castle?
[Slowly.] Well, no—it's true there are no works of art; but—
[Relieved.] Ah! that's one good thing, at any rate!
Will you go with me, then—as far and as long as I want you?
There is a tame bird of prey keeping watch upon me.
[Wildly.] We'll put a bullet in his wing, Maia!
[Looks at him a moment, and says resolutely.] Come then, and carry me down into the depths.
[Puts his arm round her waist.] It is high time! The mist is upon us!
Is the way down terribly dangerous?
The mountain is more dangerous still.