Chapter XI: Act V (2)

I think what I have done is of a part
With my conception of the world's great movement.
I will not have one set of lofty thoughts
When I behold high up the circling stars,
And others when a young girl stands before me.
What _there_ is truth, must be so here as well,
And I must say, if yonder wedded child
Cannot endure to harbor in her spirit
Two things, of which the one belies the other,
Am I prepared to make my acts deny
What I have learned through groping premonition
And reason from that monstrous principle
That towers upon the earth and strikes the stars?
I call it Life, that monstrous thing, this too
Is life--and who might venture to divide them?
And what is ripeness, if not recognizing
That men and stars have but one law to guide them?
And so herein I see the hand of fate,
That bids me live as lonely as before,
And heirless--when I speak the last good-by--
And with no loving hand in mine, to die.

SCENE II

A wainscoted room in SHALNASSAR'S house. An ascending stairway, narrow and steep, in the right background; a descending one at the left. A gallery of open woodwork with openings, inner balconies, runs about the entire stage. Unshaded hanging lamps. Curtained doorways to the left and right. Against the left wall a low bench, farther to the rear a table and seats. Old SHALNASSAR sits on the bench near the left doorway, wrapped in a cloak. Before him stands a young man, the impoverished merchant.

SHALNASS.
Were I as rich as you regard me--truly
I am not so, quite far from that, my friend--
I could not even then grant this postponement,
Nay, really, friend, and solely for your sake:
For too indulgent creditors, by Heaven,
Are debtors' ruin.

DEBTOR.
Hear me now, Shalnassar!

SHALNASS.
No more. I can hear nothing. Yea, my deafness
But grows apace with all your talking. Go!
Go home, I say: think how you may retrench.
I know your house, 'tis overrun with vermin,
I mean the servants. Curtail the expenses
Your wife has caused: they are most unbecoming
For your position. What? I am not here
To give you counsel. Home with you, I tell you.

DEBTOR.
I wanted to, my heart detains me here,
This heart that swells with pain. Go home? To me
The very door of my own house is hateful.
I cannot enter, but some creditor
Would block my way.

SHALNASS.
Well, what a fool you were.
Go home and join your lovely wife, be off!
Go home! Bring offspring into life. Then starve!

[He claps his hands. The Armenian slave
comes up the stairs. SHALNASSAR whispers
with him, without heeding the other.]

DEBTOR.
Not fifty florins have I in the world.
You spoke of servants? Aye, one withered crone
To carry water, that is all. And she
How long? No wretch abandoned, fed with alms,
Feels misery like mine: for I have known
The sweets of wealth. Through every night I slept,
Contentment round my head, and sweet was morning.
But hush! she loves me still, and so my failure
Is bright and golden. O, she is my wife!

SHALNASS.
I beg you, go, the lamps will have to burn
So long as you are standing round. Go with him.
Here are the keys.

Debtor (overcoming his fear).
A word, good Shalnassar!
I had not wished to beg you for reprieve.

SHALNASS.
What? Does my deafness cause me some illusion?

DEBTOR.
No, really.

SHALNASS.
But?

DEBTOR.
But for another loan.

SHALNASS (furious).
What do You want?

DEBTOR.
Not what I want, but must.
Thou never hast beheld her, thou must see her!
My heavy heart gives o'er its sullen beating
And leaps with joy, whene'er I look upon her.

(With growing agitation.)

All this must yet be altered. Her fair limbs
Are for the cult of tenderness created,
Not for the savage claws of desperation.
She cannot go a-begging, with such hair.
Her mouth is proud as it is sweet. O, fate
Is trying to outwit me--but I scorn it--
If thou couldst see her, old man--

SHALNASS.
I _will_ see her!
Tell her the man of years, upon whose gold
Her husband young so much depends--now mark:
The good old man, say, the decrepit gray-beard--
Desired to see her. Tell her men of years
Are childish, why should this one not be so?
But still a call is little. Tell her this:
It is almost a grave that she would visit,
A grave just barely breathing. Will you do't?

DEBTOR.
I've heard it said that you adore your gold
Like something sacred, and that next to that
You love the countenance of anguished men,
And looks that mirror forth the spirit's pain.
But you are old, have sons, and so I think
These evil sayings false. And therefore I
Will tell her this, and if perchance she asks me,
"What thinkest thou?" then I will say, "My dearest,
Peculiar, but not bad."--Farewell, but pray you,
When your desire is granted, let not mine,
Shalnassar, wait long for its due fulfilment.

[The DEBTOR and the Armenian slave exeunt down
the stairs.]

SHALNASS. (alone, rises, stretches, seems much taller now).
A honeyed fool is that, a sweet-voiced babbler,
"Hear, aged man!"--"I beg you, aged man!"
I've heard men say his wife is beautiful,
And has such fiery color in her hair
That fingers tumbling it feel heat and billows
At once. If she comes not, then she shall learn
To sleep on naked straw....
... 'Twere time to sleep.
They say that convalescents need much sleep.
But if I must be deaf, then I'll be deaf
To wisdom such as this. Sleep is naught other
Than early death. I would enjoy my nights
Together with the days still left to me.
I will be generous, whenas I please:
To Guelistane I Will give more this evening
Than she could dream. And this shall be my pretext
To have her change her room and take a chamber
Both larger and near mine. If she will do't,
Her bath shall be the juice of violets, roses,
Or pinks, and gold and amber she shall quaff,
Until the roof-beams reel in dizzy madness.

[He claps his hands, a slave comes. Exit
left, followed by slave. GUeLISTANE comes
up the stairs, an old slave-woman behind
her. GANEM bends forward from a niche
above, spies GUeLISTANE and comes down
the stairs.]

GANEM (takes her by the hand).
My dream, whence comest thou? So long I lay
To wait for thee.

[The old slave-woman mounts the stairs.]

GUeLISTANE.
I? From my bath I come
And go now to my chamber.

GANEM.
How thou shinest
From bathing.

GUeLISTANE.
It was flowing, glowing silver
Of moonlight.

GANEM.
Were I one of yonder trees,
I would cast off my foliage with a quiver,
And leap to thee! O were I master here!

GUeLISTANE.
Aye, if thou wert! Thy father is quite well.
He bade me dine alone with him this evening.

GANEM.
Accursed skill, that roused this blood again,
Which was already half coagulated.
I saw him speaking with thee just this morning.
What was it?

GUeLISTANE.

I have told thee.

GANEM.
Speak, was that all? Thou liest, there was more!

GUeLISTANE.
He asked me--

GANEM.
What? But hush, the walls have ears.

[She whispers.]

Beloved!
While thou art speaking, ripes in me a plan,
Most wonderful, note well, and based on this:
He now is but the shadow of himself,
And though he still stands threatening there, his feet
Are clay. His wrath is thunder without lightning.
And--mark me well--all this his lustfulness
Is naught but senile braggadocio.

GUeLISTANE.
Well,
What dost thou base on this?

GANEM.
The greatest hope.

[He whispers.]

GUeLISTANE.
But such a poison--
Suppose there should be one of such a nature,
To end the life, but leave the corpse unmarred--
This poison none will sell thee.

GANEM.
Aye, no man,
A woman will--

GUeLISTANE.
For what reward?

GANEM.
For this,
That, thinking I am wed, she also thinks
To call me husband--after.

GUeLISTANE.
Who'll believe it?...

GANEM.
There long has been a woman who believes it.

GUeLISTANE.
Thou liest: saidst thou not the plan was new?
And now thou sayst there long has been a woman.

GANEM.
There has: I meshed her in this web of lies
Before I saw the goal. Today 'tis clear.

GUeLISTANE.
Who is't?

GANEM.
The limping daughter of a poor
Old pastrycook, who lives in the last alley
Down in the sailors' quarter.

GUeLISTANE.
And her name?

GANEM.
What's in a name? Her eyes, with doglike fear,
Clung to me when I passed, one of those faces
That lure me, since so greedily they drink
In lies, and weave out of themselves such fancies.
And so I oft would stand and talk to her.

_From the Painting by Walter Leistikow_

GUeLISTANE. And who gives her the poison?

GANEM.
Why, her father,
By keeping it where she can steal it from him.

GUeLISTANE.
What? He a pastry-maker?

GANEM.
But quite skilful,
And very poor--and yet not to be purchased
By us at any price: he is of those
Who secretly reject our holy books,
And eat no food on which our shadow falls.
I'll visit her, while thou art eating dinner
With him.

GUeLISTANE.
So each will have his part to play.

GANEM.
But mine shall end all further repetition
Of thine. Soon I return. Make some excuse
To leave him. If I found thee with him--

GUeLISTANE (puts her hand over his mouth).
Hush!

GANEM (overcome).
How cool thy fingers are, and yet, how burns
Thy blood within them, sorceress! Thou holdest
Me captive in the deepest cell, and feedest
Me e'er at midnight with thy kennels' leavings;
Thou scourgest me, and in the dust I grovel.

GUeLISTANE.
E'en so, and thou?

GANEM (crushed by her look).
And I?
[Looks down at his feet.]
My name is Ganem,
Ganem, the slave of love.
[He sinks before her, clasping her feet.]

GUeLISTANE.
Go quickly, go!
I hear thy father, go! I bid thee go!
I will not have them find us here together.

GANEM.
I have a silly smile, quite meaningless,
'Twould serve me well to look him in the face.

[GUeLISTANE goes up the stairs. The Armenian
slave comes from below. GANEM turns to go
out on the right.]

SLAVE.
Was Guelistane with thee?

GANEM. [Shrugs his shoulders.]

SLAVE.
But thou wast speaking.

GANEM.
Aye, with my hound.

SLAVE.
Then she is doubtless here.

[He goes up the stairs. The stage remains
empty awhile, then SHALNASSAR enters
from the left with three slaves hearing vessels
and ornaments. He has everything set down by
the left wall, where there is a table with low seats.]

SHALNASS.
Put this down here, this here. Now ye may serve.

[He goes to the lowest step of the stairway.]

Ah, convalescents, so they say, should seek
The sun. Well, here I stand,

[GUeLISTANE comes down and he leads her to the gifts.]

And know no more
Of sickness, than that amber is its work,
And pearls, when it resides in trees or oysters.
My word, they both are here. And here are birds,
Quite lifelike, woven into gleaming silk,
If it be worth thy while to look at them.

GUeLISTANE.
This is too much.

SHALNASS.
Aye, for a pigeon-house,
But scarcely for a chamber large enough
To hold such rose-perfume as yonder vases
Exhale, and yet not fill the air to stifling.

GUeLISTANE.
O see, what wondrous vases!

SHALNASS.
This is onyx,
And that one Chrysophrase, beneath thy notice.
Impenetrable they are called, but odors
Can pass their walls as they were rotten wood.

GUeLISTANE.
How thank thee?

[SHALNASSAR does not understand.]

GUeLISTANE.
How, I say, am I to thank thee?

SHALNASS.
By squandering all this:
This desk of sandal-wood and inlaid pearl
Use stead of withered twigs on chilly nights
To warm thy bath: watch how the flames will sparkle,
With sweet perfume!

[A dog is heard to give tongue, then several.]

GUeLISTANE.
What sheer and fragile lace! [Lifts it up.]

SHALNASS.
Dead, lifeless stuff. I'll bring to thee a dwarf,
Hath twenty tongues of beasts and men within him.
Instead of apes and parrots I will give thee
Most curious men, abortions of the trees
That marry with the air. They sing by night.

GUeLISTANE.
Thou shalt have kisses.

[The baying of the dogs grows stronger, seems nearer.]

SHALNASS.
Say, do young lovers
Give better gifts?

GUeLISTANE.
What wretched blunderers
In this great art, but what a master thou!

[The Armenian slave comes, plucks SHALNASSAR
by the sleeve, and whispers.]

SHALNASS.
A maiden sayst thou? Doubtless 'tis a woman,
But young? I do not understand.

GUeLISTANE.
What maiden meanest thou. Beloved?

SHALNASS.
None, none. I merely bade this slave "remain,"
And thou misheardest. (To the slave.) Hither
come, speak softly.

SLAVE.
She is half dead with fear, for some highwayman
Pursued her here, and then the dogs attacked her
And pulled her down. All out of breath she asked me,
"Is this Shalnassar's house, the carpet-dealer?"

SHALNASS.
It is the wife of that sweet fool. He sent her.
Be still. (He goes to GUeLISTANE, who is just
putting a string of pearls about her throat.)
O lovely! they're not worth their place.
[He goes back to the slave.]

SLAVE.
She also speaks of Ganem.

SHALNASS.
Of my son?
All one. Say, is she fair?

SLAVE.
I thought so.

SHALNASS.
What!

SLAVE.
But all deformed with fear.

GUeLISTANE.
Some business?

SHALNASS (to her).
None,
But serving thee.

[He puts out his hand to close the clasp at
her neck, but fails.]

GUeLISTANE.
Forbear!

SHALNASS (puts his hand to his eye).
A little vein
Burst in my eye. I must behold thee dance,
To make the blood recede.

GUeLISTANE.
A strange idea.

SHALNASS.
Come, for my sake.

GUeLISTANE.
Why, then I must put up
My hair.

SHALNASS.
Then put it up. I cannot live
While thou delayest.

[GUeLISTANE goes up the stairs.]
(To the slave.)

Lead her here to me.
Say only this: the one she seeks awaits her.
Mark that: the one she seeks; no more.

[He walks up and down; exit slave.]

No being is so simple; no, I cannot
Believe there are such fools. Highwaymen, bosh!
He sent her here, and all that contradicts it
Is simply lies.
I little thought that she would come tonight,
But gold draws all this out of nothingness.
I'll keep her if she pleases me: her husband
Shall never see her face again. With fetters
Of linked gold I'll deck her pretty ankles.
I'll keep them both and make them both so tame
That they will swing like parrots in one ring.

[The slave leads SOBEIDE up the stairs. She is
agitated, her eyes staring, her hair disheveled,
the strings of pearls torn off. She no longer
wears her veil.]

SHALNASS.
O that my son might die for very wrath!
Well, well, and how she trembles and dissembles.

[He motions the slave out.]

SOBEIDE (looks at him fearfully).
Art thou Shalnassar?

SHALNASS.
Yes. And has thy husband--

SOBEIDE.
My husband? Knowst thou that? Why, did I not
Just now ... was it not just this very night?...
What?... or dost thou surmise?

SHALNASS.
Coquettish chatter
May do for youthful apes. But I am old,
And know the power that I have over you.

SOBEIDE.
That power thou hast, but thou wilt not employ it
To do me hurt.

SHALNASS.
No, by the eternal light!
But I am not a maker of sweet sayings,
Nor fond of talk.
Deliberate flattery I put behind me:
The mouth that sucks the sweetness of the fruit
Is mute. And this is chiefly autumn's trade.
Yea, though the spring may breathe a sweeter odor,
Old autumn laughs at him.--Nay, look not so
Upon my hand. Because 'tis full of veins,
Rank weeds, in which the juice of life dries up.--
O, it will seize thee yet and it can hold thee!
What, pain so soon? I'll soothe it with a string
Of pearls, come, come!

[Tries to draw her away.]

SOBEIDE (frees herself).
Have mercy, thou, my poor enfeebled brain
Is all deranged. Is it to me thou speakest?
Speak, thou art surely drunken or wouldst mock me.
Knowst thou then who I am? Oh yes, thou saidst
My husband. Yes, this was my wedding-day!
Knowst thou it? When I stood with him alone,
My husband, then it all came over me;
I wept aloud, and when he asked me, then
I lifted up my voice against him, spoke
To him of Ganem, of thy son, and told him
The whole. I'll tell thee later how it was.
Just now I know not. Only this: the door
He opened for me, kindly, not in anger,
And said to me I was no more his wife,
And I might go where'er I would.--Then go
And fetch me Ganem! Fetch him here for me!

SHALNASS. (angrily grasps his beard).
Accursed deception! Speak, what devil let thee in?

SOBEIDE.
Dear sir, I am the only child of Bachtjar,
The jeweler.

SHALNASS. (claps his hands, the slave comes).
Call Ganem.

SOBEIDE (involuntarily).
Call him hither.

SHALNASS. (to the slave).
Bring up the dinner. Is the dwarf prepared?

SLAVE.
They're feeding him; for till his hunger's gone,
He is too vicious.

SHALNASS.
Good, I'll go and see it.
[Exit with the slave to the left.]

SOBEIDE (alone).
Now I am here. Does fortune thus begin?
Yes, this has had to come, and all these colors
I know because I dreamed them, mingled thus.
We drink from goblets which a little child,
With eyes that sparkle as through garlands gay,
Holds out--but from the branches of a tree-top
Black drops drip down into the goblet's bowl
And mingle death and night with what we drink.

[She sits down on the bench.]

With whatsoe'er we do some night is mingled,
And e'en our eye has something of its blackness.
The glitter in the fabrics of our looms
Is but the woof, the pattern, its true warp
Is night.
Aye, death is everywhere; and with our glances
And with our words we cover him from sight,
And like the children, when in merry playing
They hide some toy, so we forget forthwith
That we are hiding death from our own glances.
Oh, if _we_ e'er have children, they must keep
From knowing this for many, many years.
Too soon I learned it. And the cruel pictures
Are evermore in me: they perch within me
Like turtle-doves in copses and come swarming
Upon the least alarm.

[She looks up.]

But now Ganem will come. Oh, if my heart
Would cease from holding all my blood compressed.
I'm wearied unto death. Oh, I could sleep.

[With forced liveliness.]

Ganem will come, and then all will be well!

[She breathes the scent of oil of roses and
becomes aware of the precious objects.]

How all this is perfumed, and how it sparkles!

[With alarmed astonishment.]

And there! Woe's me, this is the house of wealth,
Deluded, foolish eyes, look here and here!

[She rouses her memory feverishly.]

And that old man was fain with strings of pearls
To bind my arms and hands--why, they are rich!
And "poor" was every second word he uttered.
He lied then, lied not once but many times!
I saw him smiling when he lied, I feel it,
It chokes me here!

[She tries to calm herself.]

Oh, if he lied--but there are certain things
That can constrain a spirit. And his father
I have done much for my old father's sake--
His father this? That chokes me more than ever.
Inglorious heart, he comes, and something, something
Will be revealed, all this I then shall grasp,
I then shall grasp--

[She hears steps, looks about her wildly, then
cries in fear.]

Come, leave me not alone!

[GUeLISTANE and an old serving-woman come down
the stairs and go to the presents by the
table.]

SOBEIDE (starting).
Ganem, is it not thou?

GUeLISTANE (in an undertone).
Why, she is mad.

[She lays one present after another on the
servant's arms.]

SOBEIDE (standing at some distance from her).
No, no, I am not mad. Oh, be not angry.
The dogs are after me! But first a man.
I'm almost dead with fear. He is my friend,
Will tell you who I am. Ye do not know
How terror can transform a human being.
I ask you, are not all of us in terror
Of even drunken men? This was a murd'rer.
I am not brave, but with a lie that sped
Into my wretched head I held him off
Awhile--then he came on, and I could feel
His hands. Take pity on me, be not angry!
Ye sit there at the table fair with candles,
And I disturb. But if ye are his friends,
Ask him to tell you all. And later on,
When we shall meet and ye shall know me better,
We both will laugh about it. But as yet

(Shuddering.)

I could not laugh at it.

GUeLISTANE (turning to her).
Who is thy friend, and who will tell us all?

SOBEIDE (with innocent friendliness).
Why, Ganem.

GUeLISTANE.
Oh, what business hast thou here?

SOBEIDE (steps closer, looks fixedly at her).
What, art thou not the widow
Of Kamkar, the ship-captain?

GUeLISTANE.
And thou the daughter
Of Bachtjar, the gem-dealer?

[They regard each other attentively.]

SOBEIDE.
It is long since
We saw each other.

GUeLISTANE.
What com'st thou here
To do?

SOBEIDE.
Then thou liv'st here?--I come to question Ganem

(Faltering.)

About a matter--on which much depends--
Both for my father--

GUeLISTANE.
Hast not seen him lately?
Ganem, I mean.

SOBEIDE.
Nay, 'tis almost a year.
Since Kamkar died, thy husband, 'tis four years.
I know the day he died. How long hast thou
Lived here?

GUeLISTANE.
They are my kin. What is't to thee,
How long? But then, what odds? Why then, three years.
[SOBEIDE is silent.]

GUeLISTANE (to the slave).
Look to't that nothing fall. Hast thou the mats?

(To SOBEIDE.)

For it may be, if one were left to lie
And Ganem found it, he would take the notion
To bed his cheek on it, because my foot
Had trodden it, and then whate'er thou spokest,
He would be deaf to thine affair. Or if
He found the pin that's fallen from my hair
And breathing still its perfume: then his senses
Would fasten on that trinket, and he never
Would know thy presence.

(To the slave.)

Pick it up for me.
Come, bend thy back.

[She pushes the slave. SOBEIDE bends quickly
and holds out the pin to the slave. GUeLISTANE
takes it out of her hand and thrusts
with it at SOBEIDE.]

SOBEIDE
Alas, why prickst thou me?

GUeLISTANE.
That I may circumvent thee, little serpent.
Go, for thy face is such a silly void
That one can see what thou wouldst hide in it.
Go home again, I counsel thee.--Come thou
And carry all thou canst.

(To SOBEIDE.)

Mark thou my words:
What's mine I will preserve and keep from thieves!

[She goes up the stairs with the slave.]

SOBEIDE (alone).
What's left for me? How can this turn to good,
That so begins? No, no, my destiny
Would try me. What should mean to him this woman?
This is not love, it is but lust, a thing
That men find needful to their lives. He comes,

(In feverish haste.)

And he will cast this from him with a word
And laugh at me. Arise, my recollections,
For now I need you or shall never need you!
Woe, woe, that I must call you in this hour!
Will not one loving glance return to me?
One unambiguous word? Ah, words and glances,
Deceitful woof of air. A heavy heart
Would cling to you, and ye are rent like cobwebs.
Away, fond recollection! My old life
Today is cast behind me, and I stand
Upon a sphere that rolls I know not whither.

(With increasing agitation.)

Ganem will come to me, and his first word
Will rend the noose that tightens on my throat.
He comes, will take me in his arms--all dripping
With fear and horror, stead of oils and perfumes,--
I'll say no word, I'll hang upon his neck
And drink the words he speaks. For his first word,
The very first will lull all fears to sleep ...
He'll smile all doubt away ... and put to flight ...
But if he fail?... I will not think it, will not!

[GANEM comes up the stairs.]

SOBEIDE (cries out).

Ganem!

[She runs to him, feels his hair, his face,
falls before him, presses her head against
him, at once laughing and weeping convulsively.]

I'm here, Oh take me, take me, hold me fast!
Be good to me, thou knowst not all as yet.
I cannot yet ... How lookest thou upon me?

[She stands up again, steps back, and looks
at him in fearful suspense.]

GANEM (stands motionless before her.)
Thou!

SOBEIDE (in breathless haste).
I belong to thee, am thine, my Ganem!
Ask me not now how this has come to pass:
This is the centre of a labyrinth,
But now we stand here. Wilt thou not behold me!
He gave me freedom, he himself, my husband ...
Why does thy countenance show such a change?

GANEM.
No cause. Come hither, they may overhear us ...

SOBEIDE.
I feel that there is something in me now
Displeases thee. Why dost thou keep it from me?

GANEM.
What wouldst thou?

SOBEIDE.
Nothing, if I may but please thee.
Ah, be indulgent. Tell me my shortcomings.
I will be so obedient. Was I bold?
Look thou, 'tis not my nature so; I feel
As if this night had gripped me with its fists
And flung me hither, aye, my spirit shudders
At all that I had power there to say,
And that I then had strength to walk this road.
Art sorry that I had it?

GANEM.
Why this weeping?

SOBEIDE.
Thou hast the power to change me so. I cannot
But laugh or weep, or blush or pale again
As thou wouldst have it.

[GANEM kisses her.]

SOBEIDE.
When thou kissest me,
O look not thus! But no, I am thy slave.
Do as thou wilt. Here let me rest. I will
Be clay unto thy hands, and think no more.
And now thy brow is wrinkled?

GANEM.
Aye, for soon
Thou must return. Thou smilest?

SOBEIDE.
Should I not?
I know thou wouldst but try me.

GANEM.
No, in earnest,
Thou art in error. Thinkest thou perhaps
That I can keep thee here? Say, has thy husband
Gone over land, that thou art not afraid?

SOBEIDE.
I beg thee cease, I cannot laugh just now.

GANEM.
No, seriously, when shall I come to thee?

SOBEIDE.
To me, what for? Thou seest, I am here:
Look, here before thy feet I sit me down;
I have no other home except the straw
Beside thy hound, if thou wilt not provide
A bed for me; and none will come to fetch me.

[He raises her, then claps his hands delightedly.]

GANEM.
O splendid! How thou playst a seeming part
When opportunity demands. And it becomes thee,
Oh, most superbly! We'll draw profit from it.
There'll be no lack of further free occasion,
To yield ourselves to pleasure undismayed--
When shall I come to thee?

SOBEIDE (stepping back).
Oh, I am raving!
My head's to blame, for that I hear thee speaking
Quite other words than those thou really utter'st.
O Ganem, help me! Have thou patience with me,
What day is this today?

GANEM.
Why ask that now?

SOBEIDE.
'Twill not be always so, 'tis but from fear,
And then because I've had to feel too much
In this one fleeting night; that has confused me.
_This_ was my wedding-day: then when alone
With him, my husband, I did weep and said
It was because of thee. He oped the door
And let me out.--

GANEM.
He has the epilepsy,
I'll wager, sought fresh air. Thou art too foolish!
Let me undo thy hair and kiss thy neck.
But then go quickly home: what happens later
Shall be much better than this first beginning.

[He tries to draw her to him.]

SOBEIDE (frees herself, steps back).
Ganem, he oped the door for me, and said
I was no more his wife, and I might go
Where'er I would ... My father free of debt
... And he would let me go where'er I would ...
To thee, to thee! [She bursts into sobs.]
I ran, there was the man who took away
My pearls and would have slain me--
And then the dogs--

(With the pitiable expression of one forsaken.)

And now I'm here with thee!

GANEM (inattentively, listening intently up stage).

I think I hear some music, hear'st it thou?--
'Tis from below.

SOBEIDE.
Thy face and something else,
Ganem, fill me with a mighty fear--
Hark not to that, hear me! hear me, I beg thee!
Hear me, that here beneath thy glance am lying
With open soul, whose ebb and flow of blood
Proceeds but from the changes of thy mien.
Thou once didst love me--that, I think, is past--
For what came then, I only am to blame:
Thy brightness waxed within my gloomy soul
Like moons in fog--

[GANEM listens as before. SOBEIDE with
growing wildness.]

Suppose thou loved me not:
Why didst thou lie? If I was aught to thee,
Why hast thou lied to me? O speak to me--
Am I not worth an answer?

[Weird music and voices are heard outside.]

GANEM.
Yes, by heaven.
It is the old man's voice and Guelistane's!

[Down the stairs come a fluting dwarf and an
effeminate-looking slave playing a lute,
preceded by others with lights; then SHALNASSAR,
leaning on GUeLISTANE; finally a eunuch with
a whip stuck in his belt. GUeLISTANE frees herself
and comes forward, seeming to search the floor for
something; the others come forward also. The music
ceases.]

GUeLISTANE (over her shoulder, to SHALNASSAR).
I miss a tiny jar, of swarthy onyx
And filled with ointment. Art thou ling'ring still,
Thou Bachtjar's daughter? Bend thy lazy back
And try to find it.

[SOBEIDE is silent, looking at GANEM.]

SHALNASS.
Let it be and come!
I'll give thee hundreds more.

GUeLISTANE.
It was a secret,
The ointment in it.

GANEM (close to GUeLISTANE).
What means this procession?

SHALNASS.
Come on, why not? The aged cannot wait.
And ye, advance! Bear lights and make an uproar!
Be drunken: what has night to do with sleep!
Advance up to the door, then stay behind!

[The slaves form in order again.]

GANEM (furious).
Door, door? What door?

SHALNASS. (to GUeLISTANE, who leans against him).
Say, shall I give an answer?
If so, I'll do 't to flatter thee. If not,
'Twill be to show thee that my happiness
Requireth not old envy's flattery.

GANEM (to GUeLISTANE).
Say no, say he is lying!

GUeLISTANE.
Go, good Ganem,
And let us pass. Thy father is recovered,
And we are glad of it. Why stand so gloomy?
One must be merry with the living, eh,
While yet they live? [She looks into his eyes.]

GANEM (snatches the whip from the eunuch).
Old woman, for what purpose is this whip?
Now flee and scatter, crippled, halting folly!

[He strikes at the musicians and the lights,
then casts down the whip.]

Out, shameful lights, and thou, to bed with thee,
Puffed, swollen body; and ye bursting veins,
Ye reddened eyes, and thou putrescent mouth,
Off to a solitary bed, and night,
Dark, noiseless night instead of brazen torches
And blaring horns!

[He motions the old man out.]

SHALNASS. (bends with an effort to take the whip).
Mine is the whip, not thine!

SOBEIDE (cries out).
His father! Son and father for one woman!

GUeLISTANE (wrests the whip out of SHALNASSAR'S hand).
Go thou to bed thyself, hot-headed Ganem,
And leave together them that would be joined.
Rebuke thy father not. An older man
Can pass a sounder judgment, is more faithful
Than wanton youth. Hast thou not company?
Old Bachtjar's daughter stands there in the darkness,
And often I've been told that she is fair.
I know right well, thou wast in love with her.
So then good night. [They all turn to go.]

GANEM (wildly).
Go not with him!

GUeLISTANE (speaking backward over her shoulder).
I go
Where'er my heart commands.

GANEM (beseechingly).
Go not with him!

GUeLISTANE.
Oh, let us through: there will be other days.

GANEM (lying before her on the stairs).
Go not with him!

GUeLISTANE (turning around).
Thou daughter of old Bachtjar,
Keep him, I say, I want him not, I trample
Upon his fingers with my feet! Seest thou?

SOBEIDE (as if demented).
Aye, aye, now let us dance a merry round!
Take thou my hand and Ganem's; I Shalnassar's.
Our hair we'll loosen, and that one of us
That has the longer hair shall have the young one
Tonight--tomorrow just the other way!
King Baseness sits enthroned! And from our faces
Lies drip like poison from the salamander!
I claim my share in your high revelry.

(To GANEM, who angrily watches them mount
the stairs.)

Go up and steal her from thy father's bed
And choke him sleeping: drunken men are helpless!
I see how fain thou art to lie with her.
When thou are sated or wouldst have a change,
Then come to me, but softly we will tread,
For heavy sleep comes not to my old husband,
Such as they have, who can give ear to this,
And then sleep through it!

[She casts herself on the floor.]

But with grievous howling
I will arouse this house to shame and wrath
And lamentation ...

(She lies groaning.)

... I have loved thee so,
And so thou tramplest on me!

[An old slave appears in the background,
putting out the lights; he picks up a fallen
fruit and eats it.]

GANEM (claps his hands in sudden anger).
Come, take her out! Here is a shrieking woman,
I scarcely know her, says she weeps for me.
Her father fain would wed her to the merchant,
The wealthy one, but she perverts the whole,
And says her husband is a similar pander,
But he's no more than fool, for aught I see.

(He steps close to her, mockingly sympathetic.)

O ye, too credulous by far. But then,
Your nature's more to blame than skill of ours.
No, get thee up. I will no more torment thee.

SOBEIDE (raises herself up. Her voice is hard).
Then naught was true, and back of all is naught.
From this I cannot cleanse myself again:
What came into my soul today, remaineth.
Another might dispel it: I'm too weary.

(Stands up.)

Away! I know my course, but now away
From here!

[The old slave has gone slowly down the stairs.]

GANEM.
I will not hold thee. Yet the road--
How wilt thou find it? Still, thou foundst it once.

SOBEIDE.
The road, the self-same road!
(She shudders.) Yon aged man
Shall go with me. I have no fear, but still
I would not be alone: until the dawn--

[GANEM goes up stage to fetch the slave.]

SOBEIDE.
Meseems I wear a robe to which the pest
And horrid traces of wild drunkenness
And wilder nights are clinging, and I cannot
Put off the robe, but all my flesh goes too.
Now I must die, and all will then be well.
But speedily, before this shadow-thinking
About my father gathers blood again:
Else 'twill grow stronger, drag me back to life,
And I must travel onward in this body.

GANEM (slowly leads the old slave forward).
Give heed. This is rich Chorab's wife, the merchant.
Hast understood?

OLD SLAVE (nods).
The rich one.

GANEM.
Aye, thou shalt
Escort her.

OLD SLAVE.
What?

GANEM.
I say, thou art to lead her
Back to her house.

(OLD SLAVE nods.)

SOBEIDE.
Just to the garden wall.
From there I only know how I must go.
Will he do that? I thank thee. That is good,
Most good. Come, aged man, I go with thee.

GANEM.
Go out this door, the old man knows the path.

SOBEIDE.
He knows it, that is good, most good. We go.

[They go out through the door at the right.
GANEM turns to mount the stairs.]

SCENE III

The garden of the rich merchant. The high wall runs from the right foreground backward toward the left. Steps lead to a small latticed gate in the wall. To the left a winding path is lost among the trees. It is early morning. The shrubs are laden with blossoms, and the meadows are full of flowers. In the foreground the gardener and his wife are engaged in taking delicate blooming shrubs from an open barrow and setting them in prepared holes.

GARDENER.
The rest are coming now. But no, that is
A single man ... The master!

WIFE.
What? He's up
Ere dawn, and yesterday his wedding-day?
Alone he walks the garden--that's no man
Like other men.

GARDENER.
Be still, he's coming hither.

MERCHANT (walks up slowly from the left).
The hour of morn, before the sun is up,
When all the branches in the lifeless light
Hang dead and dull, is terrible. I feel
As if I saw the whole world in a frightful
And vacant glass, as dreary as my mind's eye.
O would all flowers might wither! Would my garden
Were poisonous morass, filled to the full
With rotted corpses of these blooming trees,
And my corpse in their midst.

[He is pulling to pieces a blossoming twig,
stops short and drops it.]

Ah, what a fool!
A gray-haired fool, as old as melancholy,
Ridiculous as old! I'll sit me down
And bind up wreaths and weep into the water.

[He walks on a few paces, lifts his hand as
if involuntarily to his heart.]

From the Painting by Walter Leistikow

O how like glass this is, and how the finger
With which fate raps upon it, like to iron!
Years form no rings on men as on the trees,
Nor fashion breast-plates to protect the heart.

[Again he walks a few paces, and so comes
upon the gardener, who takes off his straw
hat; he starts up out of his revery, and
looks inquiringly at the gardener.]

GARDENER.
Thy servant Sheriar, lord; third gardener I.

MERCHANT.
What? Sheriar, Oh yes. And this thy wife?

GARDENER.
Aye, lord.

MERCHANT.
But she is younger far than thou,
And once thou cam'st to me to make complaint
That she and some young lad,--I can't recall ...

GARDENER.
It was the donkey-driver.

MERCHANT.
So I chased
Him from my service, and she ran away.

GARDENER (bowing low).
Thou know'st the sacred courses of the stars,
Yet thou rememberest the worm as well,
That in the dust once crawled beside thy feet.
'Tis so, my lord. But she returned to me,
And lives with me thenceforth.

MERCHANT.
And lives with thee?
The fellow beat her, doubtless! Thou dost not.

[He turns away, his tone becomes bitter.]

Why, let us seat ourselves here in the grass,
And each will tell his story to the other.
He lives with her thenceforth. Why yes, he has her!
Possession is the end of all! And folly
It were to scorn the common, when our life
Is made up of the common through and through.

[Exit to the right with vigorous strides.]

WIFE (to the gardener).
What did he say to thee?

GARDENER. Oh, nothing, nothing.

[SOBEIDE and the camel-driver appear at the
latticed gate.]

WIFE.
I'll tell thee something.
[Draws near him.]
Look, look there!
The bride! That is our master's bride!
And see how pale and overwrought.

GARDENER.
Pay heed
To thine affairs.

WIFE.
Look there, she has no veil,
And see who's with her. Look. Why, that is none
Of master's servants, is it?

GARDENER.
I don't know.

[SOBEIDE puts her arm, through the lattice,
seeking the lock.]

WIFE.
She wants to enter. Hast thou not the key!

GARDENER (looking up).
Aye, that I have, and since she is the mistress,
She must be served before she opes her lips.

[He goes to the gate and unlocks it. SOBEIDE
enters, the old slave behind her. The
gardener locks the gate. SOBEIDE walks
forward with absent look, the old slave
following. The gardener walks past her,
takes off his straw hat, and is about to return
to his work. The wife stands a few paces
to the rear, parts the bushes curiously.]

SOBEIDE.
Pray tell me, is the pond not here at hand,
The big one, with the willows on its banks?

GARDENER (pointing to the right).
Down there it lies, my mistress, thou canst see it.
But shall I guide thee?

SOBEIDE (with a vehement gesture).
No, no, leave me, go!

[She is about to go off toward the right; the
old slave catches her dress and holds her
back. She turns. OLD SLAVE holds out his
hand like a beggar, but withdraws it at
once in embarrassment.]

SOBEIDE.
What?

OLD SLAVE.
Thou art at home, I'm going back again.

SOBEIDE.
Oh yes, and I have robbed thee of thy sleep,
And give thee naught for it. And thou art old
And poor. But I have nothing, less than nothing!
As poor as I no beggar ever was.

[OLD SLAVE screws up his face to laugh, holds
out his hand again.]

SOBEIDE (looks helplessly about her, puts her hand to her
hair, feels her pearl pendants, takes them off,
and gives them to him).

Take this, and this, and go!

OLD SLAVE (shakes his head).
Oh no, not that!

SOBEIDE (in a torment of haste).
I give them gladly, only go, I beg of thee!

[Starts away.]

OLD SLAVE (holds them in his hand).
No, take them back. Give me some little coin.
I'm but a poor old fool. And they would come,
Shalnassar and the others, down upon me,
And take the pearls away. For I am old
And such a beggar. This would be my ruin.

SOBEIDE.
I have naught else. But come again tonight
And bring them to the master here, my husband.
He'll give thee money for them.

OLD SLAVE.
Thou'lt be here?
Ask but for him; go now and let me go.

[Starts away.]

OLD SLAVE (holds her back).
If he is kind, oh do thou pray for me,
That he may take me as a servant. He
Is rich and has so many. I am eager,
Need little sleep. But in Shalnassar's house
I always have such hunger in the evening.
I will--

SOBEIDE (frees herself).
Just come tonight and speak to him,
And say I wanted him to hear thy prayer.
Now go, I beg thee, for I have no time.

[The old slave goes toward the gate, but
stands still in the shrubbery. The gardener's
wife has approached SOBEIDE from the
left. SOBEIDE takes a few steps, then lets
her vacant glance wander about, strikes
her brow as if she had forgotten something.
She suddenly stands still before the gardener's
wife, looks at her absently, then inquires
hastily:]

The pond is there, I hear? The pond?

[Points to the left.]

WIFE.
No, here.

[Points to the right.]

Here down this winding path. It turns right there.
Wouldst overtake my lord? He's walking slowly:
When thou art at the crossways, thou wilt see him.
Thou canst not miss him.

SOBEIDE (more agitated).
I, the master?

WIFE.
Why yes, dost thou not seek him?

SOBEIDE.
Him?--Yes, yes,
Then--I'll--go--there.

[Her glance roves anxiously, suddenly is
fixed upon an invisible object at the left
rear.]

The tower, is it locked?

WIFE.
The tower?

SOBEIDE.
Yes, the steps to mount it.

WIFE.
No,
The tower's never locked, by day or night.
Dost thou not know?

SOBEIDE.
Oh yes.

WIFE.
Wilt thou go up it?

SOBEIDE (smiling painfully).
No, no, not now. Perhaps another time.

(Smiling with a friendly gesture.)

Go, then. Go, go.

(Alone.)

The tower, the tower!
And quick. He comes from there. Soon 'tis too late.

[She looks searchingly about her, walks
slowly at first to the left, then runs through
the shrubbery. The old slave, who has
watched her attentively, slowly follows her.]

GARDENER (through with his work).
Come here and help me, wife.

WIFE.
Yes, right away.

[They take up the barrow and carry it along
toward the right.]

MERCHANT (enters from the right.)
I loved her so! Ah, how this life of ours
Resembles dreams illusory. Today
I might have had her, here and always, I!
Possession is the whole: slow-growing power
That sifts down through the soul's unseen and hidden
Interstices, feeds thus the wondrous lamp
Within the spirit, and soon from such eyes
There bursts a mightier, sweeter gleam than moonlight.
Oh, I have loved her so! I fain would see her,
See her once more. My eye sees naught but death:
The flowers wilt before my eyes like candles,
When they begin to run: all, all is dying,
And all dies to no purpose, for she is
Not here--

[The old camel-driver comes running from
the left across the stage to the gardener
and shows him something that seems to be
happening rather high in the air to the left;
the gardener calls his wife's attention to it,
and all look.]

MERCHANT (becomes aware of this, follows the direction of their
glances, grows deathly pale).
God, God! Give answer! There, there, there!
The woman on the tower, bending forward,
Why does she so bend forward? Look, look there!
[WIFE shrieks and covers her face.]

GARDENER (runs to the left, looks, calls back).
She lives and moves! Come, master, come this way.

[The merchant runs out, the gardener's wife
following. Immediately thereafter the
merchant, the gardener, and his wife come
carrying SOBEIDE, and lay her down in the
grass. The gardener takes off his outer
garment and lays it under her head.
The old camel-driver stands at some distance.]

MERCHANT (kneeling).
Thou breathest, thou wilt live for me, thou must!
Thou art too fair to die!

SOBEIDE (opens her eyes).
Forbear, I'm dying; hush, I know it well.
Dear husband, hush, I beg thee. Thee I had
Not thought to see again--
I need to crave thy pardon.

MERCHANT. (tenderly).
Thou!

SOBEIDE.
Not this.
This had to be.--No, what took place last night:
I did to thee what should become no woman,
And all my destiny I grasped and treated
As I in dancing used to treat my veils.
With fingers vain I tampered with my Self.
Speak not, but understand.

MERCHANT.
What happened--then?

SOBEIDE.
Ask not what happened; ask me not, I beg thee.
I had before been weary: 'twas the same
Up to the end. But now 'tis easy. Thou
Art good, I'll tell thee something else: my parents--
Thou knowest how they are--I bid thee take them
To live with thee.

MERCHANT.
Yes, yes, but thou wilt live.

SOBEIDE.
No, say not so; but mark, I fain would tell thee
A many things. Oh yes, that graybeard man.
He's very poor, take him into thy house
At my request.

MERCHANT.
Now thou shalt bide with me.
I will thy every wish divine: breathe softly
As e'er thou wilt, yet I will be the lyre
To answer every breath with harmony,
Until thou weary and bid it be still.

SOBEIDE.
Say not such words, for I am dizzy and
They flicker in my eyes. Lament not much,
I beg of thee. If I remained alive,
All mangled as I am, I never could
Bring children into life for thee; my body
Would be so ugly, whereas formerly
I know I had some beauty. This would be
So hard for thee to bear and hide from me.
But I shall die at once, I know, my dear.
This is so strange: our spirits dwell in us
Like captive birds. And when the cage is shattered,
It flies away. No, no, thou must not smile:
I feel it is so. Look, the flowers know it,
And shine the brighter since I know it too.
Canst thou not understand? Mark well my words.

[Pause.]

Art thou still there, and I too, all this while?
Oh, now I see thy face, and it is other
Than e'er I saw till now. Art thou my husband?

MERCHANT.
My child!

SOBEIDE.
Thy spirit seems to bend and lean
Out of thine eyes, and oh, the words thou speakest!
They quiver in the air, because the heart
So quivers, whence they come. Weep not, I can
Not bear it, for I love thee so. O let
Me see as last of all thine eyes. We should
Have lived together long and had our children.
But now 'tis fearful--for my parents.

[Dies.]

MERCHANT (half bowed).
Thus noiseless falls a star. Meseems, her heart
Was never close united with the world.
And what have I of her, except this glance,
Whose closing was involved in rigid Lethe,
And in such words as by false breath of life
Were made to sound so strong, e'en while they faded,
Just as the wind, ere he lies down to sleep,
Deceitful swells the sails as ne'er before.

[He rises.]

Aye, lift her up. So bitter is this life:
A wish was granted her, and that one door
At which she lay with longing and desire
Was oped--and back she came in such distress,
Death-stricken, that but issued forth the evening prior--
As fishers, cheeks with sun and moon afire,
Prepare their nets--in hopes of great success.

[They lift up the body to carry it in.]

ARTHUR SCHNITZLER

* * * * * *

THE GREEN COCKATOO

A Grotesque in One Act

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

EMILE, Duc de Cadignan

FRANCOIS, Vicomte de Nogeant

ALBIN, Chevalier de la Tremouille

MARQUIS DE LANSAC

SEVERINE, his wife

ROLLIN, Poet

PROSPER (formerly Theatre Manager), HOST

HENRI | | BALTHASAR | | GUILLAUME | | SCAEVOLA | | JULES | \ ETIENNE > His troupe / MAURICE | | GEORGETTE | | MICHETTE | | FLIPOTTE |

LEOCADIE, Actress, wife of Henri

GRASSET, Philosopher

LEBRET, Tailor

GRAIN, a vagabond

THE COMMISSAIRE OF POLICE

Nobles, Actors, Actresses, Citizens, and Citizens? Wives

The Action takes place in Paris in the evening of the 14th July, 1789, in the underground tavern of PROSPER.

THE GREEN COCKATOO (1899)

TRANSLATED BY HORACE SAMUEL

SCENE.--THE TAVERN OF THE GREEN COCKATOO

A medium-sized underground room. Seven steps lead down to it on the Right (rather far back). The stairs are shut off by a door on top. A second door which is barely visible is in the background on the Left. A number of simple wooden tables with chairs around them fill nearly the whole room. On the Left in the Centre is a bar; behind the bar a number of barrels with pipes. The room is lighted by small oil lamps which hang from the ceiling.

The HOST, PROSPER. Enter the citizens LEBRET and GRASSET.

GRASSET (coming down the steps). Come in, Lebret. I know the tap. My old friend and chief has always got a cask of wine smuggled away somewhere or other, even when all the rest of Paris is perishing of thirst.

HOST. Good evening, Grasset. So you show your face again, do you? Away with Philosophy! Have you a wish to take an engagement with me again?

GRASSET. The idea! Bring some wine rather. I am the guest--you the host.

HOST. Wine? Where shall I get wine from, Grasset? They've sacked all the wine-shops in Paris this very night. And I would lieve wager that you had a hand therein.

GRASSET. Out with the wine. The mob who are coming an hour after us are bound-- (Listening.) Do you hear anything, Labret?

LEBRET. It is like slight thunder.

GRASSET. Good!--Citizens of Paris-- (To HOST.) You're sure to have another barrel in reserve for the mob--so out with our wine; my friend and admirer, the Citizen Labret, tailor of the Rue St. Honore, will pay for everything.

LEBRET Certainly, certainly, I will pay.

[HOST hesitates.]

GRASSET. Show him that you have money, Labret.

[LEBRET draws out his purse.]

HOST. Now I will see if I-- (He opens the cock of a barrel and fills two glasses.) Where do yon come from, Grasset? The Palais-Royal?

GRASSET. For sure--I made a speech there. Ay, my good friend, it is my turn now. Do you know whom I spoke after?

HOST. Well?

GRASSET. After Camille Desmoulins. Yes, indeed, I dared to do it. And tell me, Labret, who had the greater applause--Desmoulins or I?

LEBRET. You--without a doubt.

GRASSET. And how did I bear myself?

LEBRET. Splendidly.

GRASSET. Do you hear, Prosper? I placed myself on the table--I looked like a monument--indeed I did--and all the thousands--five thousands, ten thousands, assembled round me--just as they had done before round Camille Desmoulins--and cheered me.

LEBRET. It was a louder cheer,

GRASSET. Indeed it was ... not much louder, but it was louder. And now they're all moving toward the Bastille ... and I make bold to say they have followed my call. I swear to you before the evening is out we shall have it.

HOST. Yes, to be sure, if the walls fall down before your speeches!

GRASSET. What--speeches--are you deaf? 'Tis a case of shooting now. Our valiant soldiers are there. They have the same hellish fury against the accursed prison as we have. They know that their brothers and fathers sit imprisoned behind those walls.... But there would have been no shooting if we had not spoken. My dear Prosper, great is the power of intellect. There--(to LEBRET) where are the papers?

LEBRET. Here! (Pulls pamphlets out of his pocket.)