The Road to Damascus
by
August Strindberg
Part 5 out of 6
STRANGER. God have mercy! And you, my boy, forgive me!
SECOND VOICE. Never! You showed us the way to the sulphur springs!
Is it far to the lake?
(The STRANGER falls to the ground.)
TEMPTER. Ha! Jubilate, temptatores!
VENUS WORSHIPPERS. Sulphur! Sulphur! Sulphur! Mercury!
TEMPTER (coming forward and touching the STRANGER with his foot).
The worm! You can make him believe whatever you like. That comes
from his unbelievable pride. Does he think he's the mainspring of
the universe, the originator of all evil? This foolish man believes
he taught youth to go in search of Venus; as if youth hadn't done
that long before he was born! His pride's insupportable, and he's
been rash enough to try to botch my work for me. Give him another
greeting, lying Erik! (The SECOND VOICE--that is the youth--bends
over the STRANGER and whispers in his ear.) There were seven deadly
sins; but now there are eight. The eighth I discovered! It's called
despair. For to despair of what is good, and not to hope for
forgiveness, is to call ... (He hesitates before pronouncing the
word God, as if it burnt his lips.) God wicked. That is calumny,
denial, blasphemy. ... Look how he winces!
STRANGER (rising quickly, and looking the TEMPTER to the eyes). Who
are you?
TEMPTER. Your brother. Don't we resemble one another? Some of your
features seem to remind me of my portrait.
STRANGER. Where have I seen it?
TEMPTER. Almost everywhere! I'm often to be found in churches,
though not amongst the saints.
STRANGER. I can't remember. ...
TEMPTER. Is it so long since you've been to church? I'm usually
represented with St. George. (The STRANGER totters and would like
to fly, but cannot.) Michael and I are sometimes to be seen in a
group, in which, to be sure, I don't appear in the most favourable
light; but that can be altered. All can be altered; and one day the
last shall be first. It's just the same in your case. For the
moment, things are going badly with you, but that can be altered
too ... if you've enough intelligence to change your company.
You've had too much to do with skirts, my son. Skirts raise dust,
and dust lies on eyes and breast. ... Come and sit down. We'll have
a chat. ... (He takes the STRANGER jocularly by the ear and leads
him round the table.) Sit down and tremble, young man! (They both
sit down.) Well? What shall we do? Call for wine--and a woman? No!
That's too old a trick, as old as Doctor Faust! Bon! We modern are
in search of mental dissipation. ... So you're on your way to those
holy men up there, who think that they who sleep can't sin; to the
cowardly ones, who've given up the battle of life, because they
were defeated once or twice; to those that bind souls rather than
free them. ... And talking of that! Has any saintly man ever freed
you from the burden of sin? No! Do you know why sin has been
oppressing you for so long? Through renunciation and abstinence,
you've grown so weak that anyone can seize your soul and take
possession of it. Why, they can even do it from a distance! You've
so destroyed your personality that you see with strange eyes, hear
with strange ears and think strange thoughts. In a word you've
murdered your own soul. Just now, didn't you speak well of the
enemies of mankind; of Woman, who made a hell of paradise? You
needn't answer me; I can read your answer in your eyes and hear it
on your lips. You talk of pure love for a woman! That's lust, young
man, lust after a woman, which we have to pay for so dearly. You
say you don't desire her. Then why do you want to be near her?
You'd like to have a friend? Take a male friend, many of them!
You've let them convince you you're no woman hater. But the woman
gave you the right answer; every healthy man's a woman hater, but
can't live without linking himself to his enemy, and so must fight
her! All perverse and unmanly men are admirers of women! How's it
with you now? So you saw those invalids and thought yourself
responsible for their misery? They're tough fellows, you can
believe me; they'll be able to leave here in a few days and go back
to their occupations. Oh yes, lying Erik's a wag! But things have
gone so far with you, that you can't distinguish between your own
and other people's children. Wouldn't it be a great thing to escape
from all this? What do you say? Oh, I could free you ... but I'm no
saint. Now we'll call old Maia. (He whistles between his fingers:
MAIA appears.) Ah, there you are! Well, what are you doing here?
Have you any business with this fellow?
MAIA. No. He's good and always was; but he'd a terrible wife.
TEMPTER (to the STRANGER). Listen! You've not heard that yet, have
you? Rather the opposite. She was the good angel, whom you ruined ...
we've all been told that! Now, old Maia, what kind of story is it
he prattles of? He says he was plagued with remorse for seven years
because he owed you money.
MAIA. He owed me a small sum once; but I got it back from him--and
with good interest--much better than the savings bank would have
given me. It was very good of him--very kind.
STRANGER (starting up). What's that you said? Is it possible I've
forgotten?
TEMPTER. Have you the receipt, Maia? If so, give it me.
MAIA. The gentleman must have the receipt; but I've got the savings
bank book here. He paid the money into it in my name. (She produces
a savings bank book, and hands it to the STRANGER, who looks at
it.)
STRANGER. Yes, that's quite right. Now I remember. Then why this
seven-year torment, shame and disgrace? Those reproaches during
sleepless nights? Why? Why? Why?
TEMPTER. Old Maia, you can go now. But first say something nice
about this self-tormentor. Can't you remember any human quality in
this wild beast, whom human beings have baited for years?
STRANGER (to MAIA). Quiet, don't answer him! (He stops his ears
with his fingers.)
TEMPTER. Well, Maia?
MAIA. I know well enough what they say about him, but that refers
to what he writes--and I've not read it for I can't read. Still, no
one need read it, if they don't want to. Anyhow the gentleman's
been very kind. Now he's stopping his ears. I don't know how to
flatter; but I can say this in a whisper. ... (She whispers some
thing to the TEMPTER.)
TEMPTER. Yes. All human beings who are easily moved are baited
like wild beasts! It's the rule. Good bye, old Maia!
MAIA. Good-bye, kind gentlemen. (She goes out.)
STRANGER. Why did I suffer innocently for seven years?
TEMPTER (pointing upwards with one finger). Ask up there!
STRANGER. Where I never get an answer!
TEMPTER. Well, that may be. (Pause.) Do you think _I_ look good?
STRANGER. I can't say I do.
TEMPTER. You look extremely wicked, too! Do you know why we look
like that?
STRANGER. No.
TEMPTER. The hate and malice of our fellow human beings have
fastened themselves on us. Up there, you know, there are real
saints, who've never done anything wicked themselves, but who
suffer for others, for relations, who've committed unexpiated sins.
Those angels, who've taken the depravity of others on themselves,
really resemble bandits. What do you say to that?
STRANGER. I don't know who you are; but you're the first to answer
questions that might reconcile me to life. You are. ...
TEMPTER. Well, say it!
STRANGER. The deliverer!
TEMPTER. And therefore. ...?
STRANGER. Therefore you've been given a vulture. ... But listen,
have you ever thought that there's as good a reason for this as for
everything else? Granted the earth's a prison, on which dangerous
prisoners are confined--is it a good thing to set them free? Is it
right?
TEMPTER. What a question! I've never really thought about it. Hm!
STRANGER. And have you ever thought of this: we may be born in
guilt?
TEMPTER. That's nothing to do with me: I concern myself with the
present.
STRANGER. Good! Don't you think we're sometimes punished wrongly,
so that we fail to see the logical connection, though it exists?
TEMPTER. Logic's not missing; but all life's a tissue of offences,
mistakes, errors, that are comparatively blameless owing to human
weakness, but that are punished by the most consistent revenge.
Everything's revenged, even our injudicious actions. Who forgives?
A magnanimous man-sometimes; heavenly justice, never! (A PILGRIM
appears in the background.) See! A penitent! I'd like to know what
wrong he's done. We'll ask him. Welcome to our quiet meadows,
peaceful wanderer! Take your place at the simple table of the
ascetic, at which there are no more temptations.
PILGRIM. Thank you, fellow traveller in the vale of woe.
TEMPTER. What kind of woe is yours?
PILGRIM. None in particular; on the contrary, the hour of
liberation's struck, and I'm going up there to receive absolution.
STRANGER. Listen, haven't we two met before?
PILGRIM. I think so, certainly.
STRANGER. Caesar! You're Caesar!
PILGRIM. I used to be; but I am no longer.
TEMPTER. Ha ha! Imperial acquaintance. Really! But tell us, tell us!
PILGRIM. You shall hear. Now I've a right to speak, for my penance
is at an end. When we met at a certain doctor's house, I was shut
up there as a madman and supposed to be suffering from the illusion
that I was Caesar. Now the Stranger shall hear the truth of the
matter: I never believed it, but I was forced by scruples of
conscience to put a good face on it. ... A friend of mine, a bad
friend, had written proof that I was the victim of a misunderstanding;
but he didn't speak when he should have, and I took his silence as
a request not to speak either-and to suffer. Why did I? Well, in my
youth I was once in great need. I was received as a guest in a
house on an island far out to sea by a man who, in spite of unusual
gifts, had been passed over for promotion--owing to his senseless
pride. This man, by solitary brooding on his lot, had come to hold
quite extraordinary views about himself. I noticed it, but I said
nothing. One day this man's wife told me that he was sometimes
mentally unbalanced; and then thought he was Julius Caesar. For
many years I kept this secret conscientiously, for I'm not
ungrateful by nature. But life's tricky. It happened a few years
later that this Caesar laid rough hands on my most intimate fate.
In anger at this I betrayed the secret of his Caesar mania and made
my erstwhile benefactor such a laughing stock, that his existence
became unbearable to him. And now listen how Nemesis overtakes one!
A year later I wrote a book-I am, you must know, an author who's
not made his name. ... And in this book I described incidents of
family life: how I played with my daughter--she was called Julia,
as Caesar's daughter was--and with my wife, whom we called Caesar's
wife because no one spoke evil of her. ... Well, this recreation,
in which my mother-in-law joined too, cost me dear. When I was
looking through the proofs of my book, I saw the danger and said to
myself: you'll trip yourself up. I wanted to cut it out but, if
you'll believe it, the pen refused, and an inner voice said to me:
let it stand! It did stand! And I fell.
STRANGER. Why didn't you publish the letter from your friend that
would have explained everything?
PILGRIM. When the disaster had happened I felt at once that it was
the finger of God, and that I must suffer for my ingratitude.
STRANGER. And you did suffer?
PILGRIM. Not at all! I smiled to myself and wouldn't let myself be
put out. And because I accepted my punishment with calmness and
humility God lightened my burden; and I didn't feel myself
ridiculous.
TEMPTER. That's a strange story; but such things happen. Shall we
move on now? We'll go for an excursion, now we've weathered the
storms. Pull yourself up by the roots, and then we'll climb the
mountain.
STRANGER. The Confessor told me to wait for him.
TEMPTER. He'll find you, anyhow! And up here in the village the
court's sitting to-day. A particularly interesting case is to be
tried; and I dare say I'll be called as a witness. Come!
STRANGER. Well, whether I sit here, or up there, is all the same to
me.
PILGRIM (to the STRANGER). Who's that?
STRANGER. I don't know. He looks like an anarchist.
PILGRIM. Interesting, anyhow!
STRANGER. He's a sceptical gentleman, who's seen life.
TEMPTER. Come, children; I'll tell you stories on the way. Come.
Come!
(They go out towards the background.)
Curtain.
ACT III
SCENE I
TERRACE ON THE MOUNTAIN
[A Terrace on the mountain on which the Monastery stands. On the
right a rocky cliff and a similar one on the left. In the far
background a bird's-eye view of a river landscape with towns,
villages, ploughed fields and woods; in the very far distance the
sea can be seen. Down stage an apple tree laden with fruit. Under
it a long table with a chair at the end and benches at the sides.
Down stage, right, a corner of the village town hall. A cloud seems
to be hanging immediately over the village.]
[The MAGISTRATE sits at the end of the table in the capacity of
judge; the assessors on the benches. The ACCUSED MAN is standing on
the right by the MAGISTRATE; the witnesses on the left, amongst
them the TEMPTER. Members of the public, with the PILGRIM and the
STRANGER, are standing here and there not far from the judge's
seat.]
MAGISTRATE. Is the accused present?
ACCUSED MAN. Yes. Present.
MAGISTRATE. This is a very sad story, that's brought trouble and
shame on our small community. Florian Reicher, twenty-three years
old, is accused of shooting at Fritz Schlipitska's affianced wife,
with the clear intention of killing her. It's a case of premeditated
murder, and the provisions of the law are perfectly clear. Has the
accused anything to say in his defence, or can he plead mitigating
circumstances?
ACCUSED MAN. No.
TEMPTER. Ho, there!
MAGISTRATE. Who are you?
TEMPTER. Counsel for the accused.
MAGISTRATE. The accused man certainly has a right to the services
of counsel, but in the present case I think the facts are so clear
that the people have reached a certain conclusion; and the murderer
will hardly be able to regain their sympathy. Isn't that so?
PEOPLE. He's condemned already!
TEMPTER. Who by?
PEOPLE. The Law and his own deed.
TEMPTER. Listen to me! As counsel for the accused I represent him
and take the accusation on myself. I ask permission to address the
court.
MAGISTRATE. I can't refuse it.
PEOPLE. Florian's been condemned already.
TEMPTER. The case must first be heard. (Pause.) I'd reached my
eighteenth year--it's Florian speaking--and my thoughts, as I grew
up under my mother's watchful eye, were pure; and my heart without
deceit, for I'd never seen or heard anything wicked. Then I--
Florian, that is--met a young girl who seemed to me the most
beautiful creature I'd ever set eyes on in this wicked world, for
she was goodness itself. I offered her my hand, my heart, and my
future. She accepted everything and swore that she'd be true. I was
to serve five years for my Rachel--and I did serve, collecting one
straw after another for the little nest we were going to build. My
whole life was centred on the love of this woman! As I was true to
her myself, I never mistrusted her. By the fifth year I'd built the
hut and collected our household goods ... when I discovered she'd
been playing with me and had deceived me with at least three men. ...
MAGISTRATE. Have you witnesses?
BAILIFF. Three valid ones; I'm one of them.
MAGISTRATE. The bailiff alone will be sufficient.
TEMPTER. Then I shot her; not out of revenge, but in order to free
myself from the unhealthy thoughts her faithlessness had forced on
me; for when I tried to tear her picture out of my heart, images of
her lovers always rose and crept into my blood, so that at last I
seemed to be living in unlawful relationship with three men--with a
woman as the link between us!
MAGISTRATE. Well, that was jealousy!
ACCUSED MAN. Yes, that was jealousy.
TEMPTER. Yes, jealousy, that feeling for cleanliness, that seeks to
preserve thoughts from pollution by strangers. If I'd been content
to do nothing, if I'd not been jealous, I'd have got into vicious
company, and I didn't want to do that. That's why she had to die so
that my thoughts might be cleansed of deadly sin, which alone is to
be condemned. I've finished.
PEOPLE. The dead woman's guilty! Her blood's on her own head.
MAGISTRATE. She's guilty, for she was the cause of the crime.
(The FATHER of the dead woman steps forward.)
FATHER. Your Worship, judge of my dead child; and you, countrymen,
let me speak!
MAGISTRATE. The dead girl's father may speak.
FATHER. You're accusing a dead girl; and I shall answer. Maria, my
child, has undoubtedly been guilty of a crime and is to blame for
the misdeeds of this man. There's no doubt of it!
PEOPLE. No doubt! It's she who's guilty!
FATHER. Permit her father to add a word of explanation, if not of
defence. (Pause.) When she was fifteen, Maria fell into the hands
of a man who seemed to have made it his business to entrap young
girls, much as a bird-catcher traps small birds. He was no seducer,
in the ordinary sense, for he contented himself with binding her
senses and entangling her feelings only to thrust her away and
watch how she suffered with torn wings and a broken heart--tortured
by the agony of love, which is worse than any other agony. For
three years Maria was cared for in an institution for the mentally
deranged. And when she came out again, she was divided, broken into
several pieces--it might be said that she was several persons. She
was an angel and feared God with one side of her spirit; but with
another she was a devil, and reviled all that was holy. I've seen
her go straight from dancing and frenzy to her beloved Florian, and
have heard her, in his presence, speak so differently and so alter
her expression, that I could have sworn she was another being. But
to me she seemed equally sincere in both her shapes. Is she to
blame, or her seducer?
PEOPLE. She's not to blame! Where is her seducer?
FATHER. There!
TEMPTER. Yes. It was I.
PEOPLE. Stone him!
MAGISTRATE. The law must run its course. He must be heard.
TEMPTER. Bon! Then listen, Argives! It was like this. Your humble
servant, born of poor but fairly honourable parents, was from the
beginning one of those strange birds who, in their youth, go in
search of their Creator--but without ever finding him, naturally!
It's more usual for old cuckoos to look for him in their dotage--
and for good reasons! The urge for this youthful quest was
accompanied by a purity of heart and a modesty that even caused his
nurses to smile--yes, we can laugh now when we hear that this boy
would only change his underclothing in the dark! But even if we're
corrupted by the crudities of life, we're still bound to find
something beautiful in it; and if we're older something touching!
And so we can afford to-day to laugh at his childish innocence.
Scornful laughter, listeners, please.
MAGISTRATE (seriously). He mistakes his listeners.
TEMPTER. Then I ought to be ashamed of myself! (Pause.) He became a
youth--your humble servant--and fell into a series of traps that
were laid for his innocence. I'm an old sinner, but I blush at this
moment. ... (He takes of his hat.) Yes, look at me now--when I
think of the insight this young man got into the world of Potiphar's
wives that surrounded him! There wasn't a single woman. ... Really,
I'm ashamed in the name of mankind and the female sex--excuse me,
please. ... There were moments when I didn't believe my eyes, but
thought a devil had blinded my sight. The holiest bands. ... (He
pinches his tongue.) No, quiet! Mankind will feel itself
calumniated! Enough, until my twenty-fifth year I fought the good
fight; and I fell because. ... Well, I was called Joseph, and I
_was_ Joseph! I grew jealous of my virtue, and felt injured by the
glances of a lewd woman. ... And at last, cunningly seduced, I
fell. Then I became a slave of my passions; often and often I sat
by Omphalos and span, until I sank into the deepest degradation and
suffered, suffered, suffered! But in reality it was only my body
that was degraded; my soul lived her own life--her own pure life, I
can say--on her own account. And I raved innocently for pure young
virgins who, it seems, felt the bond that drew us together.
Because, without boasting, I can say they were attracted to me. I
didn't want to overstep the mark, but they did! And when I fled the
danger, their hearts were broken, so they said. In a word, I've
never seduced an innocent girl. I swear it! Am I therefore to blame
for the emotional sorrows of this young woman, who went out of her
mind? On the contrary, mayn't I count it a virtue that I shrank in
horror from the step that brought about her fall? Who'll cast the
first stone at me? No one! Then I mistake my listeners. Indeed, I
thought I might be an object of scorn, if I were to plead here for
my masculine innocence! Now, however, I feel young again; and
there's something for which I'd like to ask mankind's forgiveness.
If it weren't that I happened to see a cynical smile on the lips of
the woman who seduced me when I was young. Come forward, woman, and
look upon your work of destruction. Observe, how the seed has
grown!
WOMAN (coming forward with dignity and modesty). It was I! Let me
be heard, and let me tell the simple story of my seduction.
(Pause.) Luckily my seducer is here, too. ...
MAGISTRATE. Friends! I must break off the proceedings; otherwise
we'll get back to Eve in Paradise.
TEMPTER. Who was Adam's seducer! That's just where we want to get
back to. Eve! Come forward, Eve. Eve! (He waves his cloak in the
air. The trunk of the tree becomes transparent and EVE appears,
wrapped in her hair and with a girdle about her loins.) Now, Mother
Eve, it was you who seduced our father. You are the accused: what
have you to say in your defence?
EVE (simply and with dignity). The serpent tempted me!
TEMPTER. Well answered! Eve has proved her innocence. The serpent!
Let the serpent come forward. (EVE disappears.) The serpent! (The
serpent appears in the tree trunk.) Here you can see the seducer of
us all. Now, serpent, who was it that beguiled you?
ALL (terrified). Silence! Blasphemer!
TEMPTER. Answer, serpent! (Lightning and a clap of thunder; all
flee, except the TEMPTER, who has fallen to the ground, and the
PILGRIM, the STRANGER and the LADY. The TEMPTER begins to recover;
he then gets up and sits down in an attitude that recalls the
classical statue 'The Polisher,' or 'The Slave.') Causa finalis, or
the first cause--you can't discover that! For if the serpent's to
blame, then we're comparatively innocent--but mankind mustn't be
told that! The Accused, however, seems to have got out of this
business! And the Court of justice has dissolved like smoke! Judge
not. Judge not, O Judges!
LADY (to the STRANGER). Come with me.
STRANGER. But I'd like to listen to this man.
LADY. Why? He's like a small child, putting all those questions
that can't be answered. You know how little children ask about
everything. 'Papa, why does the sun rise in the east?' You know the
answer?
STRANGER. Hm!
LADY. Or: 'Mama, who made God?' You think that profound? Well, come
with me.
STRANGER (fighting his admiration for the TEMPTER). But that about
Eve was new. ...
LADY. Not at all. I learnt it in my Bible history, when I was
eight. And that we inherit the debts of our fathers is part of the
law of the land. Come, my son.
TEMPTER (rising, shaking his limbs and climbing up the rocky wall
to the right with a limp). Come, I'll show you the world you think
you know, but don't.
LADY (climbing up the rocky wall to the left). Come with me, my
son, and I'll show you God's beautiful world, as I've come to see
it, since the tears of sorrow washed the dust from my eyes. Come
with me!
(The STRANGER stands irresolute between them.)
TEMPTER (to the LADY). And how have you seen the world through your
tears? Like meadow banks reflected in troubled water! A chaos of
curved lines in which the trees seemed to be standing on their
heads. (To the STRANGER.) No, my son, with my field-glasses, dried
in the fire of hate--with my telescope I can see everything as it
is. Clear and sharp, precisely as it is.
LADY. What do you know of things, my son? You can never see the
thing itself, only its picture; and the picture is illusion and not
the thing. So you argue about pictures and illusions.
TEMPTER. Listen to her! A little philosopher in skirts. By Jupiter
Chronos, such a disputation in this giant amphitheatre of the
mountains demands a proper audience. Hullo!
LADY. I have mine here: my friend, my husband, my child! If he'll
only listen to me, good; all will be well with me, and him. Come to
me, my friend, for this is the way. This is the mountain Gerizim,
where blessings are given. And that is Ebal, where they curse.
TEMPTER. Yes, this is Ebal, where they curse. 'Cursed be the earth,
woman, for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou bring forth children; and
thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee.'
And then to the man this: 'Cursed is the ground for thy sake,
thorns and thistle shall it bring forth to thee, and in the sweat
of thy brow shalt thou labour!' So spoke the Lord, not I!
LADY. 'And God. blessed the first pair; and He blessed the seventh
day, on which He had completed His work--and the work was good.'
But you, and we, have made it something evil, and that is why. ...
But he who obeys the commandments of the Lord dwells on Gerizim,
where blessings are given. Thus saith the Lord. 'Blessed shalt thou
be in the city, and blessed shalt thou be in the field. Blessed
shall be thy basket and thy store. Blessed shalt thou be when thou
comest in, and blessed when thou goest out. And the Lord shall give
rain unto thy land in his season to increase thy harvest, and thy
children shall flourish. And the Lord shall make thee plenteous in
goods, to lend to the peoples, and never to borrow. And the Lord
will bless all the work of thy hand, if thou shalt keep the
commandments of the Lord thy God!' (Pause.) So come, my friend, and
lay your hand in mine. (She falls on her knees with clasped hands.)
I beg you, by the love that once united us, by the memory of the
child that drew us together; by the strength of a mother's love--a
mother's--for so have I loved you, erring child, whom I've sought
in the dark places of the wood and whom at last I've found, hungry
and withered for want of love! Come back to me, prodigal one; and
bury your tired head on my heart, where you rested before ever you
saw the light of the sun. (A change comes over her during this
speech; her clothing falls from her and she is seen to have changed
into a white-robed woman with her hair let down and with a full
maternal bosom.)
STRANGER. Mother!
LADY. Yes, my child, your mother! In life I could never caress you--
the will of higher powers denied it me. Why that was I don't dare
to ask.
STRANGER. But my mother's dead?
LADY. She was; but the dead aren't dead, and maternal love can
conquer death. Didn't you know that? Come, my child, I'll repay
where I have been to blame. I'll rock you to sleep on my knees.
I'll wash you clean from the ... (She omits the word she cannot
bring herself to utter) of hate and sin. I'll comb your hair,
matted with the sweat of fear; and air a pure white sheet for you
at the fire of a home--a home you've never had, you who've known no
peace, you homeless one, son of Hagar, the serving woman, born of a
slave, against whom every man's hand was raised. The ploughmen
ploughed your back and seared deep furrows there. Come, I'll heal
your wounds, and suffer your sorrows. Come!
STRANGER (who has been weeping so violently that his whole body has
been trembling, now goes to the cliff on the left where the MOTHER
stands with open arms.) I'm coming!
TEMPTER. I can do nothing now. But one day we shall meet again! (He
disappears behind the cliff.)
Curtain.
SCENE II
ROCKY LANDSCAPE ON THE MOUNTAIN
[Higher up the mountain; among the clouds a rocky landscape with a
bog round it. The MOTHER on a rock, climbing until she disappears
into the cloud. The STRANGER stops, bewildered.]
STRANGER. Oh, Mother, Mother! Why are you leaving me? At the very
moment when my loveliest dream was on the point of fulfilment!
TEMPTER (coming forward). What have you been dreaming? Tell me!
STRANGER. My dearest hope, most secret desire and last prayer!
Reconciliation with mankind, through a woman.
TEMPTER. Through a woman who taught you to hate.
STRANGER. Yes, because she bound me to earth--like the round shot a
slave drags on his foot, so that he can't escape.
TEMPTER. You talk of woman. Always woman.
STRANGER. Yes. Woman. The beginning and the end--for us men anyhow.
In relationship to one another they are nothing.
TEMPTER. So that's it; nothing in themselves; but everything for
us, through us! Our honour and our shame; our greatest joy, our
deepest pain; our redemption and our fall; our wages and our
punishment; our strength and our weakness.
STRANGER. Our shame! You've said so. Explain this riddle to me, you
who're wise. Whenever I appeared in public arm in arm with a woman,
my wife, who was beautiful and whom I adored, I felt ashamed of my
own weakness. Explain that riddle to me.
TEMPTER. You felt ashamed? I don't know why.
STRANGER. Can't you answer? You, of all men?
TEMPTER. No, I can't. But I too always suffered when I was with my
wife in company, because I felt she was being soiled by men's
glances, and I through her.
STRANGER. And when she did the shameful deed, you were dishonoured.
Why?
TEMPTER. The Eve of the Greeks was called Pandora, and Zeus created
her out of wickedness, in order to torture men and master them. As
a wedding gift she received a box, containing all the unhappiness
of the world. Perhaps the riddle of this sphinx can more easily be
guessed, if it's seen from. Olympus, rather than from the pleasure
garden of Paradise. Its full meaning will never be known to us.
Though I'm as able as you. (Pause.) And, by the way, I can still
enjoy the greatest pleasure creation ever offered! Go you and do
likewise!
STRANGER. You mean Satan's greatest illusion! For the woman who
seems most beautiful to me, can seem horrible to others! Even for
me, when she's angry, she can be uglier than any other woman. Then
what is beauty?
TEMPTER. A semblance, a reflection of your own goodness! (He puts
his hand over his mouth.) Curses on it! I let it out that time. And
now the devil's loose. ...
STRANGER. Devil? Yes. But if she's a devil, how can a devil make me
desire virtue and goodness? For that's what happened to me when I
first saw her beauty; I was seized with a longing to be like her,
and so to be worthy of her. To begin with I tried to be by taking
exercise, having baths, using cosmetics and wearing good clothes;
but I only made myself ridiculous. Then I began from within; I
accustomed myself to thinking good thoughts, speaking well of
people and acting nobly! And one day, when my outward form had
moulded itself on the soul within, I became her likeness, as she
said. And it was she who first uttered those wonderful words: I
love you! How can a devil ennoble us; how can a spirit of hell fill
us with goodness; how ...? No, she was an angel! A fallen angel, of
course, and her love a broken ray of that great light--that great
eternal light--that warms and loves. ... That loves. ...
TEMPTER. What, old friend, must we stand here like two youths and
spell out the riddles of love?
CONFESSOR (coming in). What's this chatterer saying? He's talked
away his whole life; and never done anything.
TEMPTER. I wanted to be a priest, but had no vocation.
CONFESSOR. Whilst you're waiting for it, help me to find a drunkard
who's drowned himself in the bog. It must be near here, because
I've been following his tracks till now.
TEMPTER. Then it's the man lying beneath that brushwood there.
CONFESSOR (picking up some twigs, and disclosing a fully clothed
corpse, with a white, young face.) Yes, it is! (He grows pensive as
he looks at the dead man.)
TEMPTER. Who was he?
CONFESSOR. It's extraordinary!
TEMPTER. He must have been a good-looking man. And quite young.
CONFESSOR. Oh no. He was fifty-four. And when I saw him a week ago,
he looked like sixty-four. His eyes were as yellow as the slime of
a garden snail and bloodshot from drunkenness; but also because
he'd shed tears of blood over his vices and misery. His face was
brown and swollen like a piece of liver on a butcher's table, and
he hid himself from men's eyes out of shame--up to the end he seems
to have been ashamed of the broken mirror of his soul, for he
covered his face with brushwood. I saw him fighting his vices; I
saw him praying to God on his knees for deliverance, after he'd
been dismissed from his post as a teacher. ... But ... Well, now
he's been delivered. And look, now the evil's been taken from him,
the good and beautiful that was in him has again become apparent;
that's what he looked like when he was nineteen! (Pause.) This is
sin--imposed as a punishment. Why? That we don't know. 'He who
hateth the righteous, shall himself be guilty!' So it is written,
as an indication. I knew him when he was young! And now I remember ...
he was always very angry with those who never drank. He criticised
and condemned, and always set his cult of the grape on the altar of
earthly joys! Now he's been set free. Free from sin, from shame,
from ugliness. Yes, in death he looks beautiful. Death is the
deliverer! (To the STRANGER.) Do you hear that, Deliverer, you who
couldn't even free a drunkard from his evil passions!
TEMPTER. Crime as punishment? That's not so bad. Most penetrating!
CONFESSOR. So I think. You'll have new matter for argument.
TEMPTER. Now I'll leave you gentlemen for a while. But soon we'll
meet again. (He goes out.)
CONFESSOR. I saw you just now with a woman! So there are still
temptations?
STRANGER. Not the kind you mean.
CONFESSOR. Then what kind?
STRANGER. I could still imagine a reconciliation between mankind
and woman--through woman herself! And indeed, through that woman
who was my wife and has now become what I once held her to be
having been purified and lifted up by sorrow and need. But ...
CONFESSOR. But what?
STRANGER. Experience teaches; the nearer, the further off: the
further from one another, the nearer one can be.
CONFESSOR. I've always known that--it was known by Dante, who all
his life possessed the soul of Beatrice; and Beethoven, who was
united from afar with Therese von Brunswick, knew it, though she
was the wife of another!
STRANGER. And yet! Happiness is only to be found in her company.
CONFESSOR. Then stay with her.
STRANGER. You're forgetting one thing: we're divorced.
CONFESSOR. Good! Then you can begin a new marriage. And it'll
promise all the more, because both of you are new people.
STRANGER. Do you think anyone would marry us?
CONFESSOR. I, for instance? That's asking too much.
STRANGER. Yes. I'd forgotten! But I daresay someone could be found.
It's another thing to get a home together. ...
CONFESSOR. You're sometimes lucky, even if you won't see it.
There's a small house down there by the river; it's quite new and
the owner's never even seen it. He was an Englishman who wanted to
marry; but at the last moment _she_ broke off the engagement. It
was built by his secretary, and neither of the engaged couple ever
set eyes on it. It's quite intact, you see!
STRANGER. IS it to let?
CONFESSOR. Yes.
STRANGER. Then I'll risk it. And I'll try to begin life all over
again.
CONFESSOR. Then you'll go down?
STRANGER. Out of the clouds. Below the sun's shining, and up here
the air's a little thin.
CONFESSOR. Good! Then we must part--for a time.
STRANGER. Where are you going?
CONFESSOR. Up.
STRANGER. And I down; to the earth, the mother with the soft bosom
and warm lap. ...
CONFESSOR. Until you long once more for what's hard as stone, as
cold and as white ... Farewell! Greetings to those below!
(Each of them goes of in the direction he has chosen.)
Curtain.
SCENE III
A SMALL HOUSE ON THE MOUNTAIN
[A pleasant, panelled dining-room, with a tiled stove of majolica.
On the dining-table, which is in the middle of the room, stand
vases filled with flowers; also two candelabra with many lighted
candles. A large carved sideboard on the left. On the right, two
windows. At the back, two doors; that on the left is open and gives
a view of the drawing-room, belonging to the lady of the house,
which is furnished in light green and mahogany, and has a standard
lamp of brass with a large, lemon-coloured lampshade, which is lit.
The door on the right is closed. On the left behind the sideboard
the entrance from the hall.]
[From the left the STRANGER enters, dressed as a bridegroom; and
the LADY, dressed as a bride; both radiant with youth and beauty.]
STRANGER. Welcome to my house, beloved; to your home and mine, my
bride; to your dwelling-place, my wife!
LADY. I'm grateful, dear friend! It's like a fairy tale!
STRANGER. Yes, it is. A whole book of fairy tales, my dear, written
by me.
(They sit down on either side of the table.)
LADY. Is this real? It seems too lovely to me.
STRANGER. I've never seen you look so young, so beautiful.
LADY. It's your own eyes. ...
STRANGER. Yes, my own eyes that have learnt to see. And your
goodness taught them. ...
LADY. Which itself was taught by sorrow.
STRANGER. Ingeborg!
LADY. It's the first time you've called me by that name.
STRANGER. The first? I've never met Ingeborg; I've never known you,
as you are, sitting here in our home! Home! An enchanting word. An
enchanting thing I've never yet possessed. A home and a wife! You
are my first, my only one; for what once happened exists no longer--
no more than the hour that's past!
LADY. Orpheus! Your song has made these dead stones live. Make life
sing in me!
STRANGER. Eurydice, whom I rescued from the underworld! I'll love
you to life again; revivify you with my imagination. Now happiness
will come to us, for we know the dangers to avoid.
LADY. The dangers, yes! It's lovely in this house. It seems as if
these rooms were full of invisible guests, who've come to welcome
us. Kind spirits, who'll bless us and our home.
STRANGER. The candle flames are still, as if in prayer. The flowers
are pensive. ... And yet!
LADY. Hush! The summer night's outside, warm and dark. And stars
hang in the sky; large and tearful in the fir trees, like Christmas
candles. This is happiness. Hold it fast!
STRANGER (still thinking). And yet!
LADY. Hush!
STRANGER (getting up). A poem's coming: I can hear it. It's for you.
LADY. Don't tell it me. I can see it--in your eyes.
STRANGER. For I read it in yours! Well, I couldn't repeat it,
because it has no words. Only scent, and colour. If I were to, I
should destroy it. What's unborn is always most beautiful. What's
unwon, most dear!
LADY. Quiet. Or, our guests will leave us.
(They do not speak.)
STRANGER. This _is_ happiness--but I can't grasp it.
LADY. See it and breath it; for it can't be grasped.
(They do not speak.)
STRANGER. You're looking at your little room.
LADY. It's as bright green as a summer meadow. There's someone in
there. Several people!
STRANGER. Only my thoughts.
LADY. Your good, your beautiful thoughts. ...
STRANGER. Given me by you.
LADY. Had I anything to give you?
STRANGER. You? Everything! But up to now my hands have not been
free to take it. Not clean enough to stroke your little heart. ...
LADY. Beloved! The time for reconciliation's coming.
STRANGER. With mankind, and woman--through a woman? Yes, that time
has come; and blessed may you be amongst women.
(The candles and lamps go out; it grows dark in the dining-room;
but a weak ray of light can be seen, coming from the brass standard
lamp in the LADY's room.)
LADY. Why's it grown dark? Oh!
STRANGER. Where are you, beloved? Give me your hand. I'm afraid!
LADY. Here, dearest.
STRANGER. The little hand, held out to me in the darkness, that's
led me over stones and thorns. That little, soft, dear hand! Lead
me into the light, into your bright, warm room; fresh green like
hope.
LADY (leading him towards the pale-green room). Are you afraid?
STRANGER. You're a white dove, with whom the startled eagle finds
sanctuary, when heaven's thunder clouds grow black, for the dove
has no fear. She has not provoked the thunders of heaven!
(They have reached the doorway leading to the other room, when the
curtain falls.)
***
[The same room; but the table has been cleared. The LADY is sitting
at it, doing nothing. She seems bored. On the right, down stage, a
window is open. It is still. The STRANGER comes in, with a piece of
paper in his hand.]
STRANGER. Now you shall hear it.
LADY (acquiescing absent-mindedly). Finished already?
STRANGER. Already? Do you mean that seriously? I've taken seven
days to write this little poem. (Silence.) Perhaps it'll bore you
to hear it?
LADY (drily). No. Certainly not. (The STRANGER sits down at the
table and looks at the LADY.) Why are you looking at me?
STRANGER. I'd like to see your thoughts.
LADY. But you've heard them.
STRANGER. That's nothing; I want to see them! (Pause.) What one
says is mostly worthless. (Pause.) May I read them? No, I see I
mayn't. You want nothing more from me. (The LADY makes a gesture as
if she were going to speak.) Your face tells me enough. Now you've
sucked me dry, eaten me hollow, killed my ego, my personality. To
that I answer: how, my beloved? Have _I_ killed your ego, when I
wanted to give you the whole of mine; when I let you skim the cream
off my bowl, that I'd filled with all the experience of along life,
with incursions into the deserts and groves of knowledge and art?
LADY. I don't deny it, but my ego wasn't my own.
STRANGER. Not yours? Then what is? Something that belongs to
others?
LADY. Is yours something that belongs to others too?
STRANGER. No. What I've experienced is my own, mine and no other's.
What I've read becomes mine, because I've broken it in two like
glass, melted it down, and from this substance blown new glass in
novel forms.
LADY. But I can never be yours.
STRANGER. I've become yours.
LADY. What have you got from me?
STRANGER. How can you ask me that?
LADY. All the same--I'm not sure that you think it, though I feel
you feel it--you wish me far away.
STRANGER. I must be a certain distance from you, if I'm to see you.
Now you're within the focus, and your image is unclear.
LADY. The nearer, the farther off!
STRANGER. Yes. When we part, we long for one another; and when we
meet again, we long to part.
LADY. Do you really think we love each other?
STRANGER. Yes. Not like ordinary people, but unusual ones. We
resemble two drops of water, that fear to get close together, in
case they should cease to be two and become one.
LADY. This time we knew the dangers and wanted to avoid them. But
it seems that they can't be avoided.
STRANGER. Perhaps they weren't dangers, but rude necessities; laws
inscribed in the councils of the immortals. (Silence.) Your love
always seemed to have the effect of hate. When you made me happy,
you envied the happiness you'd given me. And when you saw I was
unhappy, you loved me.
LADY. Do you want me to leave you?
STRANGER. If you do, I shall die.
LADY. And, if I stay, it's I who'll die.
STRANGER. Then let's die together and live out our love in a higher
life; our love, that doesn't seem to be of this world. Let's live
it out in another planet, where there's no nearness and no
distance, where two are one; where number, time and space are no
longer what they are in this.
LADY. I'd like to die, yet I don't want to. I think I must be dead
already.
STRANGER. The air up here's too strong.
LADY. You can't love me if you speak like that.
STRANGER. To be frank, there are moments when you don't exist for
me. But in others I feel your hatred like suffocating smoke.
LADY. And I feel my heart creeping from my breast, when you are
angry with me.
STRANGER. Then we must hate one other.
LADY. And love one another too.
STRANGER. And hate because we love. We hate each other, because
we're bound together. We hate the bond, we hate our love; we hate
what is most loveable, what is the bitterest, the best this life
can offer. We've come to an end!
LADY. Yes.
STRANGER. What a joke life is, if you take it seriously. And how
serious, if you take it as a joke! You wanted to lead me by the
hand towards the light; your easier fate was to make mine easier
too. I wanted to raise you above the bogs and quicksands; but you
longed for the lower regions, and wanted to convince me they were
the upper ones. I ask myself if it's possible that you took what
was wicked from me, when I was freed from it; and that what was
good in you entered into me? If I've made you wicked I ask your
pardon, and I kiss your little hand, that caressed and scratched me ...
the little hand that led me into the darkness ... and on the long
journey to Damascus. ...
LADY. To a parting? (Silence.) Yes, a parting!
(The LADY goes on her way. The STRANGER falls on to a chair by the
table. The TEMPTER puts his head in at the window, and rests
himself on his elbows whilst he smokes a cigarette.)
TEMPTER. Ah, yes! C'est l'amour! The most mysterious of all
mysteries, the most inexplicable of all that can't be explained,
the most precarious of all that's insecure.
STRANGER. So you're here?
TEMPTER. I'm always everywhere, where it smells of quarrels. And in
love affairs there are always quarrels.
STRANGER. Always?
TEMPTER. Always! I was invited to a silver wedding yesterday.
Twenty-five years are no trifle--and for twenty-five years they'd
been quarrelling. The whole love affair had been one long shindy,
with many little ones in between! And yet they loved one another,
and were grateful for all the good that had come to them; the evil
was forgotten, wiped out--for a moment's happiness is worth ten
days of blows and pinpricks. Oh yes! Those who won't accept evil
never get anything good. The rind's very bitter, though the
kernel's sweet.
STRANGER. But very small.
TEMPTER. It may be small, but it's good! (Pause.) Tell me, why did
your madonna go her way? No answer; because he doesn't know! Now
we'll have to let the hotel again. Here's a board. I'll hang it out
at once. 'To Let.' One comes, another goes! C'est la vie, quoi?
Rooms for Travellers!
STRANGER. Have you ever been married?
TEMPTER. Oh yes. Of course.
STRANGER. Then why did you part?
TEMPTER. Chiefly--perhaps it's a peculiarity of mine--chiefly
because--well, you know, a man marries to get a home, to get into a
home; and a woman to get out of one. She wanted to get out, and I
wanted to get in! I was so made that I couldn't take her into
company, because I felt as if she were soiled by men's glances. And
in company, my splendid, wonderful wife turned into a little
grimacing monkey I couldn't bear the sight of. So I stayed at home;
and then, she stayed away. And when I met her again, she'd changed
into someone else. She, my pure white notepaper, was scribbled all
over; her clear and lovely features changed in imitation of the
satyr-like looks of strange men. I could see miniature photographs
of bull-fighters and guardsmen in her eyes, and hear the strange
accents of strange men in her voice. On our grand piano, on which
only the harmonies of the great masters used to be heard, she now
played the cabaret songs of strange men; and on our table there lay
nothing but the favourite reading of strange men. In a word, my
whole existence was on the way to becoming an intellectual
concubinage with strange men--and that was contrary to my nature,
which has always longed for women! And--I need hardly say this--the
tastes of these strange men were always the reverse of mine. She
developed a real genius for discovering things I detested! That's
what she called 'saving her personality.' Can you understand that?
STRANGER. I can; but I won't attempt to explain it.
TEMPTER. Yet this woman maintained she loved me, and that I didn't
love her. But I loved her so much I didn't want to speak to any
other human being; because I feared to be untrue to her if I found
pleasure in the company of others, even if they were men. I'd
married for feminine society; and in order to enjoy it I'd left my
friends. I'd married in order to find company, but what I got was
complete solitude! And I was supporting house and home, in order to
provide strange men with feminine companionship. _C'est l'amour_,
my friend!
STRANGER. You should never talk about your wife.
TEMPTER. No! For if you speak well of her, people will laugh; and
if you speak ill, all their sympathy will go out to her; and if, in
the first instance, you ask why they laugh, you get no answer.
STRANGER. No. You can never find out who you've married. Never get
hold of her--it seems she's no one. Tell me--what is woman?
TEMPTER. I don't know! Perhaps a larva or a chrysalis, out of whose
trance-like life a man one day will be created. She seems a child,
but isn't one; she is a sort of child, and yet not like one. Drags
downward, when the man pulls up. Drags upward, when the man pulls
down.
STRANGER. She always wants to disagree with her husband; always has
a lot of sympathy for what he dislikes; is crudest beneath the
greatest superficial refinement; the wickedest amongst the best.
And yet, whenever I've been in love, I've always grown more
sensitive to the refinements of civilisation.
TEMPTER. You, I dare say. What about her?
STRANGER. Oh, whilst our love was growing _she_ was always
developing backwards. And getting cruder and more wicked.
TEMPTER. Can you explain that?
STRANGER. No. But once, when I was trying to find the solution to
the riddle by disagreeing with myself, I took it that she absorbed
my evil and I her good.
TEMPTER. Do you think woman's particularly false?
STRANGER. Yes and no. She seeks to hide her weakness but that only
means that she's ambitious and has a sense of shame. Only whores
are honest, and therefore cynical.
TEMPTER. Tell me some more about her that's good.
STRANGER. I once had a woman friend. She soon noticed that when I
drank I looked uglier than usual; so she begged me not to. I
remember one night we'd been talking in a cafe for many hours. When
it was nearly ten o'clock, she begged me to go home and not to
drink any more. We parted, after we'd said goodnight. A few days
later I heard she'd left me only to go to a large party, where she
drank till morning. Well, I said, as in those days I looked for all
that was good in women, she meant well by me, but had to pollute
herself for business reasons.
TEMPTER. That's well thought out; and, as a view, can be defended.
She wanted to make you better than herself, higher and purer, so
that she could look up to you! But you can find an equally good
explanation for that. A wife's always angry and out of humour with
her husband; and the husband's always kind and grateful to his
wife. He does all he can to make things easy for her, and she does
all she can to torture him.
STRANGER. That's not true. Of course it may sometimes appear to be
so. I once had a woman friend who shifted all the defects that she
had on to me. For instance, she was very much in love with herself,
and therefore called me the most egoistical of men. She drank, and
called me a drunkard; she rarely changed her linen and said I was
dirty; she was jealous, even of my men friends, and called me
Othello. She was masterful and called me Nero. Niggardly and called
me Harpagon.
TEMPTER. Why didn't you answer her?
STRANGER. You know why very well! If I'd made clear to her what she
really was, I'd have lost her favour that moment--and it was
precisely her favour I wanted to keep.
TEMPTER. _A tout prix_! Yes, that's the source of degradation! You
grow accustomed to holding your tongue, and at last find yourself
caught in a tissue of falsehoods.
STRANGER. Wait! Don't you agree that married people so mix their
personalities that they can no longer distinguish between meum and
tuum, no longer remain separate from one another, or cannot tell
their own weaknesses from those of the other. My jealous friend,
who called me Othello, took me for herself, identified me with
herself.
TEMPTER. That sounds conceivable.
STRANGER. You see! You can often explain most if you don't ask
who's to blame. For when married people begin to differ, it's like
a realm divided against itself, and that's the worst kind of
disharmony.
TEMPTER. There are moments when I think a woman cannot love a man.
STRANGER. Perhaps not. To love is an active verb and woman's a
passive noun. He loves and she is loved; he asks questions and she
merely answers.
TEMPTER. Then what is woman's love?
STRANGER. The man's.
TEMPTER. Well said. And therefore when the man ceases to love her,
she severs herself from him!
STRANGER. And then?
TEMPTER. 'Sh! Someone's coming. Perhaps to take the house!
STRANGER. A woman or a man?
TEMPTER. A woman! And a man. But he's waiting outside. Now he's
turned and is going into the wood. Interesting!
STRANGER. Who is it?
TEMPTER. You can see for yourself.
STRANGER (looking out of the window). It's she! My first wife! My
first love!
TEMPTER. It seems she's left her second husband recently ... and
arrived here with number three; who, if one can judge by certain
movements of his back and calves, is escaping from a stormy scene.
Oh, well! But she didn't notice his spiteful intentions. Very
interesting! I'll go out and listen.
(He disappears. The WOMAN knocks.)
STRANGER. Come in!
(The WOMAN comes in. There is a silence.)
WOMAN (excitedly). I only came here because the house was to let.
STRANGER. Oh!
WOMAN (slowly). Had I known who wanted to let it, I shouldn't have
come.
STRANGER. What does it matter?
WOMAN. May I sit down a moment? I'm tired.
STRANGER. Please do. (They sit down at the table opposite one
another, in the seats occupied by the STRANGER and the LADY in the
first scene.) It's a long time since we've sat facing one another
like this.
WOMAN. With flowers and lights on the table. One night ...
STRANGER. When I was dressed as a bridegroom and you as a bride ...
WOMAN. And the candle flames were still as in prayer and the
flowers pensive. ...
STRANGER. Is your husband outside?
WOMAN. No.
STRANGER. You're still seeking ... what doesn't exist?
WOMAN. Doesn't it?
STRANGER. No. I always told you so, but you wouldn't believe me;
you wanted to find out for yourself. Have you found out now?
WOMAN. Not yet.
STRANGER. Why did you leave your husband? (The WOMAN doesn't
reply.) Did he beat you?
WOMAN. Yes.
STRANGER. How did he come to forget himself so far?
WOMAN. He was angry.
STRANGER. What about?
WOMAN. Nothing.
STRANGER. Why was he angry about nothing?
WOMAN (rising). No, thank you! I won't sit here and be picked to
pieces. Where's your wife?
STRANGER. She left me just now.
WOMAN. Why?
STRANGER. Why did you leave me?
WOMAN. I felt you wanted to leave me; so, not to be deserted, I
went myself.
STRANGER. I dare say that's true. But how could you read my
thoughts?
WOMAN (sitting down again). What? We didn't need to speak in order
to know one another's thoughts.
STRANGER. We made a mistake when we were living together, because
we accused each other of wicked thoughts before they'd become
actions; and lived in mental reservations instead of realities. For
instance, I once noticed how you enjoyed the defiling gaze of a
strange man, and I accused you of unfaithfulness.
WOMAN. You were wrong to do so, and right. Because my thoughts were
sinful.
STRANGER. Don't you think my habit of 'anticipating you' prevented
your bad designs from being put in practice?
WOMAN. Let me think! Yes, perhaps it did. But I was annoyed to find
a spy always at my side, watching my inmost self, that was my own.
STRANGER. But it wasn't your own: it was ours!
WOMAN. Yes, but I held it to be mine, and believed you'd no right
to force your way in. When you did so I hated you; I said you were
abnormally suspicious out of self-defence. Now I can admit that
your suspicions were never wrong; that they were, in fact, the
purest wisdom.
STRANGER. Oh! Do you know that, at night, when we'd said good-night
as friends and gone to sleep, I used to wake and feel your hatred
poisoning me; and think of getting out of bed so as not to be
suffocated. One night I woke and felt a pressure on the top of my
head. I saw you were awake and had put your hand close to my mouth.
I thought you were making me inhale poison from a phial; and, to
make sure, I seized your hand.
WOMAN. I remember.
STRANGER. What did you do then?
WOMAN. Nothing. Only hated you.
STRANGER. Why?
WOMAN. Because you were my husband. Because I ate your bread.
STRANGER. Do you think it's always the same?
WOMAN. I don't know. I suspect it is.
STRANGER. But sometimes you've even despised me?
WOMAN. Yes, when you were ridiculous. A man in love is always
ridiculous. Do you know what a cox-comb is? That's what a lover's
like.
STRANGER. But if any man who loves you is ridiculous, how can you
respond to his love?
WOMAN. We don't! We submit to it, and search for another man who
doesn't love us.
STRANGER. But if he, in turn, begins to love you, do you look for a
third?
WOMAN. Perhaps it's like that.
STRANGER. Very strange. (There is a silence.) I remember you were
always dreaming of someone you called your Toreador, which I
translated by 'horse butcher.' You eventually got him, but he gave
you no children, and no bread; only beatings! A toreador's always
fighting. (Silence.) Once I let myself be tempted into trying to
compete with the toreador. I started to bicycle and fence and do
other things of the kind. But you only began to detest me for it.
That means that the husband mayn't do what the lover may. Later you
had a passion for page boys. One of them used to sit on the
Brussels carpet and read you bad verses. ... My good ones were of
no use to you. Did you get your page boy?
WOMAN. Yes. But his verses weren't bad, really.
STRANGER. Oh yes, they were, my dear. I know him! He stole my
rhythms and set them for the barrel organ.
WOMAN (rising and going to the door.) You should be ashamed of
yourself.
(The TEMPTER conies in, holding a letter in his hand.)
TEMPTER. Here's a letter. It's for you. (The WOMAN takes it, reads
it and falls into a chair.) A farewell note! Oh, well! All
beginnings are hard--in love affairs. And those who lack the
patience to surmount initial difficulties--lose the golden fruit.
Pages are always impatient. Unknown youth, have you had enough?
STRANGER (rising and picking up his hat). My poor Anna!
WOMAN. Don't leave me.
STRANGER. I must.
WOMAN. Don't go. You were the best of them all.
TEMPTER. Do you want to begin again from the beginning? That would
be a sure way to make an end of this. For if lovers only find one
another, they lose one another! What is love? Say something witty,
each one of you, before we part.
WOMAN. I don't know what it is. The highest and the loveliest of
things, that has to sink to the lowest and the ugliest.
STRANGER. A caricature of godly love.
TEMPTER. An annual plant, that blossoms during the engagement, goes
to seed in marriage and then sinks to the earth to wither and die.
WOMAN. The loveliest flowers have no seed. The rose is the flower
of love.
STRANGER. And the lily that of innocence. That can form seeds, but
only opens her white cup to kisses.
TEMPTER. And propagates her kind with buds, out of which fresh
lilies spring, like chaste Minerva who sprang fully armed from the
head of Zeus, and not from his royal loins. Oh yes, children, I've
understood much, but never this: what the beloved of my soul has to
do with. ... (He hesitates.)
STRANGER. Well, go on!
TEMPTER. What all-powerful love, that is the marriage of souls, has
to do with the propagation of the species!
STRANGER and WOMAN. Now he's come to the point!
TEMPTER. I've never been able to understand how a kiss, that's an
unborn word, a soundless speech, a quiet language of the soul, can
be exchanged, by means of a hallowed procedure, for a surgical
operation, that always ends in tears and the chattering of teeth.
I've never understood how that holy night, the first in which two
souls embrace each other in love, can end in the shedding of blood,
in quarrelling, hate, mutual contempt--and lint! (He holds his
mouth shut.)
STRANGER. Suppose the story of the fall were true? In pain shalt
thou bring forth children.
TEMPTER. In that case one could understand.
WOMAN. Who is the man who says these things?
TEMPTER. Only a wanderer on the quicksands of this life. (The WOMAN
rises.) So you're ready to go. Who will go first?
STRANGER. I shall.
TEMPTER. Where?
STRANGER. Upwards. And you?
TEMPTER. I shall stay down here, in between. ...
Curtain.
ACT IV
SCENE I
CHAPTER HOUSE OF THE MONASTERY
[A Gothic chapter house. In the background arcades lead to the
cloisters and the courtyard of the monastery. In the middle of the
courtyard there is a well with a statue of the Virgin Mary,
surrounded by long-stemmed white roses. The walls of the chapter
house are filled with built-in choir stalls of oak. The PRIOR'S own
stall is in the middle to the right and rather higher than the
rest. In the middle of the chapter house an enormous crucifix. The
sun is shining on the statue of the Virgin in the courtyard. The
STRANGER enters from the back. He is wearing a coarse monkish cowl,
with a rope round his waist and sandals on his feet. He halts in
the doorway and looks at the chapter house, then goes over to the
crucifix and stops in front of it. The last strophe of the choral
service can be heard from across the courtyard. The CONFESSOR
enters from the back; he is dressed in black and white; he has long
hair and along beard and a very small tonsure that can hardly be
seen.]
CONFESSOR. Peace be with you!
STRANGER. And with you.
CONFESSOR. How do you like this white house?
STRANGER. I can only see blackness.
CONFESSOR. You still are black; but you'll grow white, quite white!
Did you sleep well last night?
STRANGER. Dreamlessly, like a tired child. But tell me: why do I
find so many locked doors?
CONFESSOR. You'll gradually learn to open them.
STRANGER. Is this a large building?
CONFESSOR. Endless! It dates from the time of Charlemagne and has
continually grown through pious benefactions. Untouched by the
spiritual upheavals and changes of different epochs, it stands on
its rocky height as a monument of Western culture. That is to say:
Christian faith wedded to the knowledge of Hellas and Rome.
STRANGER. So it's not merely a religious foundation?
CONFESSOR. No. It embraces all the arts and sciences as well.
There's a library, museum, observatory and laboratory--as you'll
see later. Agriculture and horticulture are also studied here; and
a hospital for laymen, with its own sulphur springs, is attached to
the monastery.
STRANGER. One word more, before the chapter assembles. What kind of
man is the Prior?
CONFESSOR (smiling). He is the Prior! Aloof, without peer, dwelling
on the summits of human knowledge, and ... well, you'll see him
soon.
STRANGER. Is it true that he's so old?
CONFESSOR. He's reached an unusual age. He was born at the
beginning of the century that's now nearing its end.
STRANGER. Has he always been in the monastery?
CONFESSOR. No. He's not always been a monk, though always a priest.
Once he was a minister, but that was seventy years ago. Twice
curator of the university. Archbishop. ... 'Sh! Mass is over.
STRANGER. I presume he's not the kind of unprejudiced priest who
pretends to have vices when he has none?
CONFESSOR. Not at all. But he's seen life and mankind, and he's
more human than priestly.
STRANGER. And the fathers?
CONFESSOR. Wise men, with strange histories, and none of them
alike.
STRANGER. Who can never have known life as it's lived. ...
CONFESSOR. All have lived their lives, more than once; have
suffered shipwreck, started again, gone to pieces and risen
once more. You must wait.
STRANGER. The Prior's sure to ask me questions. I don't think
I can agree to everything.
CONFESSOR. On the contrary, you must show yourself as you are; and
defend your opinions to the last.
STRANGER. Will contradiction be permitted here?
CONFESSOR. Here? You're a child, who's lived in a childish world,
where you've played with thoughts and words. You've lived in the
erroneous belief that language, a material thing, can be a vehicle
for anything so subtle as thoughts and feelings. We've discovered
that error, and therefore speak as little as possible; for we are
aware of, and can divine, the innermost thoughts of our neighbour.
We've so developed our perceptive faculties by spiritual exercises
that we are linked in a single chain; and can detect a feeling of
pleasure and harmony, when there's complete accord. The Prior, who
has trained himself most rigorously, can feel if anyone's thoughts
have strayed into wrong paths. In some respects he's like--merely
like, I say--a telephone engineer's galvanometer, that shows when
and where a current has been interrupted. Therefore we can have no
secrets from one another, and so do not need the confessional.
Think of all this when you confront the searching eye of the Prior!
STRANGER. Is there any intention of examining me?
CONFESSOR. Oh no. There are merely a few questions to answer
without any deep meaning, before the practical examinations. Quiet!
Here they are.
(He goes to one side. The PRIOR enters from the back. He is dressed
entirely in white and he has pulled up his hood. He is a tall man
with long white hair and along white beard-his head is like that of
Jupiter. His face is pale, but full and without wrinkles. His eyes
are large, surrounded by shadows and his eyebrows strongly marked.
A quiet, majestic calm reigns over his whole personality. The PRIOR
is followed by twelve Fathers, dressed in black and white, with
black hoods, also pulled up. All bow to the crucifix and then go to
their places.)
PRIOR (after looking at the STRANGER for a moment.) What do you
seek here? (The STRANGER is confused and tries to find an answer,
but cannot. The PRIOR goes on, calmly, firmly, but indulgently.)
Peace? Isn't that so? (The STRANGER makes a sign of assent with
head and mouth.) But if the whole of life is a struggle, how can
you find peace amongst the living? (The STRANGER is not able to
answer.) Do you want to turn your back on life because you feel
you've been injured, cheated?
STRANGER (in a weak voice). Yes.
PRIOR. So you've been defrauded, unjustly dealt with? And this
injustice began so early that you, an innocent child, couldn't
imagine you'd committed any crime that was worthy of punishment.
Well, once you were unjustly accused of stealing fruit; tormented
into taking the offence on yourself; tortured into telling lies
about yourself and forced to beg forgiveness for a fault you'd not
committed. Wasn't it so?
STRANGER (with certainty). Yes. It was.
PRIOR. It was; and you've never been able to forget it. Never. Now
listen, you've a good memory; can you remember _The Swiss Family
Robinson_?
STRANGER (shrinking). _The Swiss Family Robinson_?
PRIOR. Yes. Those events that caused you such mental torture
happened in 1857, but at Christmas 1856, that is the year before,
you tore a copy of that book and out of fear of punishment hid it
under a chest in the kitchen. (The STRANGER is taken aback.) The
wardrobe was painted in oak graining, and clothes hung in its upper
part, whilst shoes stood below. This wardrobe seemed enormously big
to you, for you were a small child, and you couldn't imagine it
could ever be moved; but during spring cleaning at Easter what was
hidden was brought to light. Fear drove you to put the blame on a
schoolfellow. And now he had to endure torture, because appearances
were against him, for you were thought to be trustworthy. After
this the history of your sorrows comes as a logical sequence. You
accept this logic?
STRANGER. Yes. Punish me!
PRIOR. No. I don't punish; when I was a child I did--similar
things. But will you now promise to forget this history of your own
sufferings for all time and never to recount it again?
STRANGER. I promise! If only he whom I took advantage of could
forgive me.
PRIOR. He has already. Isn't that so, Pater Isidor?
ISIDOR (who was the DOCTOR in the first part of 'The Road to
Damascus,' rising). With my whole heart!
STRANGER. It's you!
ISIDOR. Yes. I.
PRIOR (to FATHER ISIDOR). Pater Isidor, say a word, just one.
ISIDOR. It was in the year 1856 that I had to endure my torture.
But even in 1854 one of my brothers suffered in the same way, owing
to a false accusation on my part. (To the STRANGER.) So we're all
guilty and not one of us is without blemish; and I believe my
victim had no clear conscience either. (He sits down.)
PRIOR. If we could only stop accusing one another and particularly
Eternal Justice! But we're born in guilt and all resemble Adam! (To
the STRANGER.) There was something you wanted to know, was there
not?
STRANGER. I wanted to know life's inmost meaning.
PRIOR. The very innermost! So you wanted to learn what no man's
permitted to know. Pater Uriel! (PATER URIEL, who is blind, rises.
The PRIOR speaks to the STRANGER.) Look at this blind father! We
call him Uriel in remembrance of Uriel Acosta, whom perhaps you've
heard of? (The STRANGER makes a sign that he has not.) You haven't?
All young people should have heard of him. Uriel Acosta was a
Portuguese of Jewish descent, who, however, was brought up in the
Christian faith. When he was still fairly young he began to
inquire--you understand--to inquire if Christ were really God; with
the result that he went over to the Jewish faith. And then he began
research into the Mosaic writings and the immortality of the soul,
with the result that the Rabbis handed him over to the Christian
priesthood for punishment. A long time after he returned to the
Jewish faith. But his thirst for knowledge knew no bounds, and he
continued his researches till he found he'd reached absolute
nullity; and in despair that he couldn't learn the final secret he
took his own life with a pistol shot. (Pause.) Now look at our good
father Uriel here. He, too, was once very young and anxious to
know; he always wanted to be in the forefront of every modern
movement, and he discovered new philosophies. I may add, by the
way, that he's a friend of my boyhood and almost as old as I. Now
about 1820 he came upon the so-called rational philosophy, that had
already lain in its grave for twenty years. With this system of
thought, which was supposed to be a master key, all locks were to
be picked, all questions answered and all opponents confuted--
everything was clear and simple. In those days Uriel was a strong
opponent of all religions and in particular followed the
Mesmerists, as the hypnotisers of that age were called. In 1830 our
friend became a Hegelian, though, to be sure, rather late in the
day. Then he re-discovered God, a God who was immanent in nature
and in man, and found he was a little god himself. Now, as ill-luck
would have it, there were two Hegels, just as there were two
Voltaires; and the later, or more conservative Hegel, had developed
his All-godhead till it had become a compromise with the Christian
view. And so Father Uriel, who never wanted to be behind the times,
became a rationalistic Christian, who was given the thankless task
of combating Rationalism and himself. (Pause.) I'll shorten the
whole sad history for Father Uriel's sake. In 1850 he again became
a materialist and an enemy of Christianity. In 1870 he became a
hypnotist, in 1880 a theosophist, and 1890 he wanted to shoot
himself! I met him just at that time. He was sitting on a bench in
Unter den Linden in Berlin, and he was blind. This Uriel was blind--
and Uriel means 'God is my Light'--who for a century had marched
with the torch of liberalism at the head of _every_ modern
movement! (To the STRANGER.) You see, he wanted to know, but he
failed! And therefore he now believes. Is there anything else you'd
like to know?
STRANGER. One thing only.
PRIOR. Speak.
STRANGER. If Father Uriel had held to his first faith in 1810, men
would have called him conservative or old-fashioned; but now, as
he's followed the developments of his time and has therefore
discarded his youthful faith, men will call him a renegade--that's
to say: whatever he does mankind will blame him.
PRIOR. Do you heed what men say? Father Clemens, may I tell him how
you heeded what men said? (PATER CLEMENS rises and makes a gesture
of assent.) Father Clemens is our greatest figure painter. In the
world outside he's known by another name, a very famous one. Father
Clemens was a young man in 1830. He felt he had a talent for
painting and gave himself up to it with his whole soul. When he was
twenty he was exhibiting. The public, the critics, his teachers,
and his parents were all of the opinion that he'd made a mistake in
the choice of his profession. Young Clemens heeded what men were
saying, so he laid down his brush and turned bookseller. When he
was fifty years of age, and had his life behind him, the paintings
of his early years were discovered by some stranger; and were then
recognised as masterpieces by the public, the critics, his teachers
and relations! But it was too late. And when Father Clemens
complained of the wickedness of the world, the world answered with
a heartless grin: 'Why did you let yourself be taken in?' Father
Clemens grieved so much at this, that he came to us. But he doesn't
grieve any longer now. Or do you, Father Clemens?
CLEMENS. No! But that isn't the end of the story. The paintings I'd
done in 1830 were admired and hung in a museum till 1880. Taste
then changed very quickly, and one day an important newspaper
announced that their presence there was an outrage. So they were
banished to the attic.
PRIOR (to the STRANGER). That's a good story!
CLEMENS. But it's still not finished. By 1890 taste had so changed
again that a professor of the History of Art wrote that it was a
national scandal that my works should be hanging in an attic. So
the pictures were brought down again, and, for the time being, are
classical. But for how long? From that you can see, young man, in
what worldly fame consists? Vanitas vanitatum vanitas!
STRANGER. Then is life worth living?
PRIOR. Ask Pater Melcher, who is experienced not only in the world
of deception and error, but also in that of lies and contradictions.
Follow him: he'll show you the picture gallery and tell you stories.
STRANGER. I'll gladly follow anyone who can teach me something.
(PATER MELCHER takes the STRANGER by the hand and leads him out of
the Chapter House.)
Curtain.
SCENE II
PICTURE GALLERY OF THE MONASTERY
[Picture Gallery of the Monastery. There are mostly portraits of
people with two heads.]
MELCHER. Well, first we have here a small landscape, by an unknown
master, called 'The Two Towers.' Perhaps you've been in Switzerland
and know the originals.
STRANGER. I've been in Switzerland!
MELCHER. Exactly. Then near the station of Amsteg on the Gotthard
railway you've seen a tower, called Zwing-Uri, sung of by Schiller
in his _Wilhelm Tell_. It stands there as a monument to the cruel
oppression which the inhabitants of Uri suffered at the hands of
the German Emperors. Good! On the Italian side of the Gotthard lies
Bellinzona, as you know. There are many towers to be seen there,
but the most curious is called Castel d'Uri. That's the monument
recalling the cruel oppression which the Italian cantons suffered
at the hands of the inhabitants of Uri! Now do you understand?
STRANGER. So freedom means: freedom to oppress others. That's new
to me.
MELCHER. Then let's go on without further comment to the portrait
collection. Number one in the catalogue. Boccaccio, with two heads--
all our portraits have at least two heads. His story's well known.
The great man began his career by writing dissolute and godless
tales, which he dedicated to Queen Johanna of Naples, who'd seduced
the son of St. Brigitta. Boccaccio ended up as a saint in a
monastery where he lectured on Dante's Hell and the devils that, in
his youth, he had thought to drive out in a most original way.
You'll notice now, how the two faces are meeting each other's gaze!
STRANGER. Yes. But all trace of humour's lacking; and humour's to
be expected in a man who knew himself as well as our friend
Boccaccio did.
MELCHER. Number two in the catalogue. Ah, yes; that's two-headed
Doctor Luther. The youthful champion of tolerance and the aged
upholder of intolerance. Have I said enough?
STRANGER. Quite enough.
MELCHER. Number three in the catalogue. The great Gustavus Adolphus
accepting Catholic funds from Cardinal Richelieu in order to fight
for Protestantism, whilst remaining neutral in the face of the
Catholic League.
STRANGER. How do Protestants explain this threefold contradiction?
MELCHER. They say it's not true. Number four in the catalogue.
Schiller, the author of The Robbers, who was offered the freedom of
the City of Paris by the leaders of the French Revolution in 1792;
but who had been made a State Councillor of Meiningen as early as
1790 and a royal Danish Stipendiary in 1791. The scene depicts the
State Councillor--and friend of his Excellency Goethe--receiving
the Diploma of Honour from the leaders of the French Revolution as
late as 1798. Think of it, the diploma of the Reign of Terror in
the year 1798, when the Revolution was over and the country under
the Directory! I'd have liked to have seen the Councillor and his
friend, His Excellency! But it didn't matter, for two years later
he repaid his nomination by writing the _Song of the Bell_, in
which he expressed his thanks and begged the revolutionaries to
keep quiet! Well, that's life. We're intelligent people and love
_The Robbers_ as much as _The Song of the Bell_; Schiller as much
as Goethe!
STRANGER. The work remains, the master perishes.
MELCHER. Goethe, yes! Number five in the catalogue. He began with
Strassburg cathedral and _Goetz von Berlichingen_, two hurrahs for
gothic Germanic art against that of Greece and Rome. Later he
fought against Germanism and for Classicism. Goethe against Goethe!
There you see the traditional Olympic calm, harmony, etc., in the
greatest disharmony with itself. But depression at this turns into
uneasiness when the young Romantic school appears and combats the
Goethe of _Iphigenia_ with theories drawn from Goethe's _Goetz_.
That the 'great heathen' ends up by converting Faust in the Second
Part, and allowing him to be saved by the Virgin Mary and the
angels, is usually passed over in silence by his admirers. Also the
fact that a man of such clear vision should, towards the end of his
life, have found everything so 'strange,' and 'curious,' even the
simplest facts that he'd previously seen through. His last wish was
for 'more light'! Yes; but it doesn't matter. We're intelligent
people and love our Goethe just the same.
STRANGER. And rightly.
MELCHER. Number six in the catalogue. Voltaire! He has more than
two heads. The Godless One, who spent his whole life defending God.
The Mocker, who was mocked, because 'he believed in God like a
child.' The author of the cynical 'Candide,' who wrote:
In my youth I sought the pleasures
Of the senses, but I learned
That their sweetness was illusion
Soon to bitterness it turned.
In old age I've come to see
Life is nought but vanity.
Dr. Knowall, who thought he could grasp everything between Heaven
and Earth by means of reason and science, sings like this, when he
comes to the end of his life:
I had thought to find in knowledge
Light to guide me on my way;
Yet I still must walk in darkness
All that's known must soon decay.
Ignorance, I turn to thee!
Knowledge is but vanity.
But that's no matter! Voltaire can be put to many uses. The Jews
use him against the Christians, and the Christians use him against
the Jews, because he was an anti-Semite, like Luther. Chateaubriand
used him to defend Catholicism, and Protestants use him even to-day
to attack Catholicism. He was a fine fellow!
STRANGER. Then what's your view?
MELCHER. We have no views here; we've faith, as I've told you
already. And that's why we've only one head--placed exactly above
the heart. (Pause.) In the meantime let's look at number seven in
the catalogue. Ah, Napoleon! The creation of the Revolution itself!
The Emperor of the People, the Nero of Freedom, the suppressor of
Equality and the 'big brother' of Fraternity. He's the most cunning
of all the two-headed, for he could laugh at himself, raise himself
above his own contradictions, change his skin and his soul, and yet
be quite explicable to himself in every transformation--convinced,
self-authorised. There's only one other man who can be compared
with him in this; Kierkegaard the Dane. From the beginning he was
aware of this parthenogenesis of the soul, whose capacity to
multiply by taking cuttings was equivalent to bringing forth young
in this life without conception. And for that reason, and so as not
to become life's fool, he wrote under a number of pseudonyms, of
which each one constituted a 'stage on his life's way.' But did you
realise this? The Lord of life, in spite of all these precautions,
made a fool of him after all. Kierkegaard, who fought all his life
against the priesthood and the professional preachers of the State
Church, was eventually forced of necessity to become a professional
preacher himself! Oh yes! Such things do happen.
STRANGER. The Powers That Be play tricks. ...
MELCHER. The Powers play tricks on tricksters, and delude the
arrogant, particularly those who alone believe they possess truth
and knowledge! Number eight in the catalogue. Victor Hugo. He split
himself into countless parts. He was a peer of France, a Grandee of
Spain, a friend of Kings, and the socialist author of _Les
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