[The scene is a large, square room of poverty-stricken, dilapidated appearance, with walls, floor, and ceiling dark in colour, and the back wall broken only by two lofty, curtainless windows through which the outer night shows darkly. Between the windows is a door leading out into the garden. The general effect of the room gives the beholder the impression that, however brilliantly it were lighted, the great, dark expanses of window-pane would still absorb the major portion of the light. To the left is a second door, giving entry to other portions of the Man's mansion. Near this second door there stands a sofa, upholstered in coarse horsehair, while beneath one of the windows there can be seen the Man's working-table—a perfectly plain piece of furniture. Upon it are mingled in careless confusion a dimly burning candle, a shaded lamp, a faded sketch-plan, and three child's toys—namely, a small pasteboard helmet, a wooden horse without a tail, and a red-nosed clown doll, holding cymbals in its hands. To the right is an old bookcase—empty, and almost falling to pieces, but showing, by the lines left in the dust with which its shelves are covered, that the books which it formerly contained have not long been removed. The room contains a single chair.
[In one corner, darker than the rest of the scene, there stands the Being in Grey. The candle in his hand is now reduced to a stump, and even from this the wax is fast running down as it burns with a red, unsteady light and throws gleams of a ruddy hue over the stony face and chin of the Being. [Seated on the solitary chair which the room contains, and talking to herself, is discovered an old woman—the last remaining servant of the Man.]
The Old Woman.
So once again the Man has sunk to poverty! Once upon a time he had many valuable possessions—horses, carriages, even a motor-car; but now he has nothing at all. Of his many servants I am the only one left. True, this room and two others still contain an odd piece or two of furniture, but in the other fifteen apartments there is nothing whatever; they stand dark and empty, and day and night the rats scamper and squeak in them. Some people might be afraid of the rats, but I am not. Nothing matters much to me.
For a long while now there has been a notice-board hanging on the entrance-gates, to say that the mansion is for sale; but no one seems to care to be a purchaser. The board has grown rusty with the rain, and the letters on it are fast being washed out, but no customer ever appears. Who would want to buy a house in such repair? Still, some day some one might do so, and then we shall be turned out of doors, I suppose, and have to seek another place in which to lay our heads. At first it will seem strange to us, but we shall soon get used to it. Sometimes my mistress weeps, and my master too, but I never weep. Nothing matters much to me.
Are you wondering what has become of all the Man's wealth? Nay, I do not know. Sometimes I too wonder, but I have lived a long life in service, and have seen more than one great fortune slip away into chinks and clefts, and vanish quietly. So it has been with my master and mistress. At first they had much, then little, then nothing at all. Once upon a time patrons and customers used to come and give my master commissions. Now they have ceased to come. That is all. One day I asked my mistress why things were so, and she replied: "What used to be fashionable is not so now. People no longer care for the styles in architecture which they used to affect."
"But what has made the fashions change?" said I. She made no answer, but burst into tears. I shed no tears. Nothing matters much to me, nothing matters much to me. So long as they pay me my wages I shall stop with them, and as soon as they cease paying those wages I shall go and take service elsewhere. For many years I have done their cooking for them, but I should leave them at once, and go and cook for some one else, if my wages were to cease. In any case I shall soon have to give up working, for I am growing old, and my sight is not what it was. Some day, perhaps, I shall be dismissed—yes, told to go about my business and make room for some one else. Ah, well, what will it matter? I shall just go—that is all. Nothing matters much to me.
Sometimes people are surprised at me. "It must be lonely for you," they say, "in that kitchen—alone every evening while the wind howls in the chimney, and the rats scamper and squeak." I do not know. Perhaps it is lonely, only I never think of it. Why should I? My master and mistress sit alone, the same as I do, and look at one another, and listen to the wind; and I sit in my kitchen and listen to the wind also. Once upon a time young folks used to come and visit my master's little son; and then there would be such singing and laughter and scampering about the empty rooms to scare the rats! Yet no one ever came to see me. No, I sat alone as I am sitting now—alone, quite alone: and since I have no one to talk to I talk to myself. Nothing matters much to me.
Three days ago yet another misfortune came upon this house. The young master brushed his hair, and cocked his hat as young gentlemen will do, and went out for a walk. And some rascally villain picked up a stone, and threw it at him, and split the boy's head like a cocoa-nut. Well, he was lifted up, and brought home, and now lies upon his bed—though whether to live or to die the good God alone knows. My old master and mistress wept so bitterly over him! Then they took all the books out of that bookcase yonder, and piled them upon a cart, and sent them away to be sold: and with the money they have hired a nurse, and bought medicines and grapes for the boy. But he will not touch the grapes, nor look at them, and they lie unheeded on a plate by his bedside.
[Enter a Doctor, looking worried and fatigued.]
The Doctor.
Old woman, can you tell me if I have come to the right house? I am a doctor with a large practice, and many patients to visit, so that I sometimes make mistakes. First I am called to one house, and then to another—only to find that the first house is empty, and the second one inhabited by a colony of idiots! Have I come to the right place this time?
The Old Woman.
I do not know.
The Doctor.
Well, I will consult my memorandum-book. Have you a child with the croup and a sore throat?
The Old Woman.
No.
The Doctor.
Then have you a man with a broken leg?
The Old Woman.
No.
The Doctor.
Or a man who has gone out of his mind and attacked his wife and children with a hatchet—four patients in all?
The Old Woman.
No..
The Doctor.
Then have you a young girl with palpitation of the heart? Do not lie to me, old woman, for I am almost sure that this is where I was to attend her.
The Old Woman.
No.
The Doctor.
No? Well, I believe you, for you speak with such conviction. Let me look in my book again. Have you a young gentleman who has had his head broken with a stone, and now lies at death's door?
The Old Woman.
Yes. Step through that door on the left, and mind the rats don't eat you.
The Doctor.
Very well, I will attend the young gentleman. Oh dear, oh dear! I am for ever being sent for, for ever being sent for—day and night alike! This time it is night, and though the street lamps have long ago been put out, I have to trot away all the same. Thus I often make mistakes, old woman.
[Exit through the door on the left.
The Old Woman.
Already one doctor has been to attend the boy, without doing him any good, and now here comes another one—to do him about as little, I reckon. Well, what of that? The boy will die, and we shall go on living without him—that is all. I shall go on sitting in my kitchen as before, without a soul to keep me company, and think; and one room the more will be left empty for the rats to scamper and squeak in. Well, let them scamper, and let them squeak: it is all one to me.
Do you want to know why that ruffian flung the stone at the young master's head? Nay, I do not know. How should I know why men want to kill one another? All I know is that a man threw a stone, and then hid himself in a dark corner, and that a boy was struck by that stone, and now lies a-dying. They say that the young master was good and kind to poor people. Maybe. I do not know. It is all one to me. Kind or cruel, old or young, alive or dead—folk are all one to me. So long as I am paid my wages I shall stop where I am; and when those wages cease I shall move elsewhere and cook for some one else, or, maybe, give up working altogether, for I am growing old, and sometimes mistake salt for sugar. Or perhaps I shall be discharged, and told to go about my business, so that they may get another cook in my place. Well, what of that? I shall just go—that is all. Every place is the same to me—here, there, or anywhere; every place is the same to me.
[Re-enter the Doctor, accompanied by the Man and his Wife. Both the latter are now grown old and grey. Yet, though the Man walks with his body slightly bent, he holds his head (to which his shaggy, upstanding hair and long beard impart something of a leonine appearance) erect. Likewise, though he has to don a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles whenever he wishes to observe an object closely, his glance still flashes keenly and directly from under his grey eyebrows.]
The Doctor.
Your son has fallen into a deep sleep, and you must not wake him. Perhaps it is the best sign at present. But you yourselves ought to take some rest. People who have time to sleep should use it, and not waste the precious hours of the night in walking about and talking, as I have to do.
The Man's Wife.
We thank you, doctor. You have greatly reassured us. Are you coming again to-morrow?
The Doctor.
Yes, and the next day as well. (To the Old Woman) You too ought to be in bed. Every one ought to be in bed at this time of night. Is that my way out—through that door there? I so often make mistakes!
[Exit with the Old Woman.
The Man.
(Taking up the sketch-plan from his Worktable.) Look at this, my wife. It is something which I had begun upon just before our boy's accident happened. I remember stopping in the middle of that line and thinking, "I will take a little rest now, and continue it later." See how simple and easy that line was to draw! Yet how strange to look upon it and think, "Perhaps this may prove to have been the last line which I drew while our boy was yet alive!" With what an unconscious air of ill-omen do its very straightness and simplicity seem charged!
His Wife.
Nay; do not fret yourself, my darling, but chase away these despondent thoughts from you.
I feel sure now that the doctor spoke truth—that our boy, will recover.
The Man.
Ah, but are not you fretting a little, my dear one? Look at yourself in the mirror, and you will see that your face is as white as your hair, my poor old comrade.
His Wife.
Oh, perhaps I am worrying a little; but, none the less, I feel sure that our boy will recover.
The Man.
Ah, how you hearten my spirits, as always you have done! How you charm away my sorrows with your sincerity and goodness! O little armour-bearer, the never-failing keeper of my faltering sword, thy old knight is in pitiful case now—his trembling hand can scarce hold his weapon. But what see I here? My son's old toys! Who put them there?
His Wife.
My dear one, you forget. You yourself put them there, long ago; for you said that you could work better if those innocent, childish toys lay beside you.
The Man.
Yes, yes, I was forgetting. Yet I lean scarcely bear to look upon them now; even as a condemned criminal cannot bear to look upon the instruments of torture and death. When a son is dying his toys become things of horror to the father who is to be left behind. Wife, wife, I cannot bear to see them!
His Wife.
Ah, it was in the far-off, early days when we were poor—as poor as we are now—that we bought them for him. I too feel hurt to see them there—poor darling little toys!
The Man.
I cannot help it; I must take them in my hands once more. Here is the little horse without a tail. "Gee up, gee up, little horse! Where are you galloping to?"
"Oh, a long way off, Papa—a long way off, to where there are fields and forests of green."
"Will you take me with you on your little horse?"
"Oh yes, oh yes, Papa! Climb on to his back, dearest Papa!—— ——" And here is the little pasteboard helmet which I tried on my own head the day that we bought it in the shop and made so merry over it. "Who are you?"
"I am a knight, Papa—the most powerful, daring knight."
"And where are you going to, little knight?"
"To slay a dragon, dear Papa, and to set his prisoners free."
"Go then, go then, little knight————"
[The Man's Wife bursts into tears.]
And here, too, is our old friend, the clown doll, with his dear, silly face. But how ragged he looks now!—as though he had been through a hundred fights! Yet he is as red-nosed and smiling as ever. Now, sound your cymbals, my little friend, as you were used to do. You cannot, eh? You say that you cannot?—that you have only one cymbal left? Very well, then. Down upon the floor you go!
[He throws down the doll.]
His Wife.
Oh, what are you doing? Remember how often our boy has kissed its merry face.
The Man.
Yes, I did wrong. Forgive me, my dear. And do you too pardon me, my little friend of old times. [He stoops with some difficulty and picks up the doll.] So thou art still smiling? Ah well, I will lay thee aside awhile. Be not angry with me, but I cannot bear thy smiles just now—thou must go and smile elsewhere.
His Wife.
Oh, how your words rend my heart I Believe me, our son will yet recover. How could it be right that youth should go to the grave before old age?
The Man.
And how often have you known the "right" to happen, my wife?
His Wife.
Nay, nay; speak not so, my old comrade, but, rather, let us go upon our knees and say a prayer to God.
The Man.
Methinks it would be difficult for my old knees to bend now.
His Wife.
Yet try to bend them, dearest one. It is our duty.
The Man.
Think you, then, that God would heed one who has never yet troubled His ear with prayer or praise? Do you pray: you are the mother.
His Wife.
Nay, but do you also: you are the father. If a father will not pray for his son, who else shall do it—to whom else shall it be left? And would my prayer alone avail as much as yours and mine together?
The Man.
Be it so, then; and perhaps the Everlasting Goodness will yet hold His hand when He sees an aged couple on their knees.
[They kneel down, with their faces towards the corner where stands the Being in Grey, and clasp their hands in an attitude of prayer.]
Prayer of the Mother.
O God, I beseech Thee to spare the life of our son. One thing, one thing only, can my tongue find to say unto Thee: Spare us our son, O God! Spare us our son! Nought but this can I ask of Thee, for all around me is dark—all around me is slipping beneath my feet, so that I am utterly bewildered and astray. In the agony of my soul I beseech Thee, O God—again, and yet again—to spare us our son, to spare us our son. Forgive me this poor prayer of mine, but indeed I can do no better. Thou Thyself knowest that I can do no better. Look down upon me, look down upon me! Dost thou not see my trembling head, my trembling hands—ah, my trembling hands, O God? Have mercy, then, upon our child. He is yet so young that the birthmark is not faded from his right hand. Suffer him, then, I beseech Thee, to live a little longer—just a little longer—just a little longer. Have mercy upon him, have mercy upon him!
[She breaks off into silent weeping, and covers her face with her hands. The Man does not glance at her, but gives utterance, in his turn, to the following prayer.]
Prayer of the Father.
O God, dost Thou see me praying to Thee? Dost Thou see that I have bent my aged knees, and am crouching in the dust—that I am kissing the very earth in token of my supplication? Perchance at times I have offended Thee? If that be so, yet grant me Thy forgiveness. Perchance at times I have been insolent and presuming—I have blamed Thee for my misfortunes—I have demanded when I should have asked? Yet now, I pray Thee, forgive me these things. Punish me if Thou wilt—punish me howsoever Thou pleasest: only spare us the life of our son. Yea, spare him, I beseech Thee. I do not ask this of Thy mercy, nor of Thy pity, but of Thy justice: for Thou art old in years, as even am I, and wouldst the better comprehend me for that. Evil men have tried to kill our son—cruel, pitiless men who lurked in dark places and cast stones at him. Yea, they lurked in dark places, and cast stones at him, the cowardly villains! Yet suffer them not to have achieved their evil purpose, seeing that they are men who do offend Thee with their misdeeds, and pollute Thy earth with their abominations. Staunch Thou, rather, the blood of our beloved son, and preserve to us his life. When Thou didst take away from me my riches, did I beseech and importune Thee to give me back my possessions, my friends, my fame, my talents? Did I, O God? No, never did I. I asked not even that my talents should be restored to me; and Thou Thyself knowest that a man's talents are more to him than life itself. Perchance, thought I, these things must be; so I bore them—bore them ever without complaining. Yet now I beseech Thee—here on my knees, and kissing the very dust of earth before Thee—that Thou wilt restore to us our little son. Yea, I kiss the very earth in token of my supplication.
[The Man and his Wife rise to their feet again. The Being in Grey has listened to these prayers without making any sign.]
The Man's Wife.
My dearest one, I cannot help fearing that your prayer was not sufficiently humble in tone. Methought there was too much of the note of pride in it.
The Man.
No, no, my wife. I did but speak Him fair, as man would speak to man. Surely He cannot prefer flatterers to open, self-respecting men who speak the truth? No, wife; you do not understand Him. I feel quite confident again now, and my mind is at ease—it is even cheerful. I feel that I can still do a little to help our son, and the thought gives me comfort. Go now, and see if he is asleep. He ought to have a good, sound sleep.
[The Man's Wife leaves the room, and the Man seems to throw a glance as of gratitude towards the Being in Grey; after which he takes up the doll again, and begins to play with it, and to kiss its long red nose. Presently his Wife returns.]
The Man.
(With cheerful animation). Yes, I feel sure now that I am' forgiven for my late insult to this little friend of mine. And how is our dear boy?
His Wife.
He looks so dreadfully pale!
The Man.
Oh, that is nothing. That will soon pass away. You must remember that he has lost so much blood.
His Wife.
Yet it hurts me to see his poor, pale face and close-cropped head. He used to have such beautiful curls!
The Man.
Yes, I know, but the doctor was obliged to cut them off to dress the wound. But never mind, my wife; they will soon grow again, more beautiful than ever. Did you save the curls when they were cut off? They ought certainly to have been saved, for there was his dear blood upon them'.
His Wife.
Yes, my beloved one; and I stored them in this casket here—the only, thing of value which we have left.
The Man.
Then you did rightly. We have no cause to fret about our vanished riches, for the boy; will soon be grown up, and able to go and work for us all. Yes, he will soon recover for us what we have lost. I feel quite cheerful again, my wife—quite confident about the future. Do you remember our poor old room with the pink walls, and how the good neighbours brought us sprigs of oak and birch, and how you made a chaplet of leaves for my head, and swore that I was a genius?
His Wife.
Yes; and I swear it now, my darling. Others may have ceased to, appreciate you, but not I.
The Man.
Yet you are mistaken, little wife. If I were really a genius my creations would have outlived this poor old relic which they call my body: yet I am still alive, whereas my creations——
His Wife.
No, no! They have not perished, nor will they ever. Think of that great mansion at the corner of the street—the one which you designed ten years ago. I know well that you go to look at it every evening when the sun is setting. And, indeed, is there in all the world a more beautiful, a more stately mansion?
The Man.
Yes, of set purpose I built it in such a way that the beams of the setting sun may fall upon it and make its windows flash. When all the rest of the city is in twilight my house is still bidding farewell to the sun. Yes, 'twas a fine piece of work; and perchance—who knows?—it will outlive me a little while.
His Wife.
Of course it will, my darling!
The Man.
One thing, and one thing only, grieves me concerning that masterpiece of mine: and that is that people should so soon have forgotten its designer. They might have remembered him a little longer, just a little longer.
His Wife.
Oh, in time people forget every one, just as they cease to care for fashions which they once adored.
The Man.
Yet they might have remembered me just a little longer, just a little longer.
His Wife.
One day I saw a young artist gazing at that mansion. He was studying; it carefully, and sketching it in a notebook.
The Man.
Oh, you should have told me of that before, dear wife! It means a great deal, a very great deal. It means that my design will be handed down to future generations, and that, even if my personality be forgotten, my work will live. Yes, it means a great deal, a very great deal.
His Wife.
Ah! So you see that you are not forgotten, my darling! Think, too, of the young man who saluted you so respectfully in the street the other day.
The Man.
Yes, that is true, my wife. He was a nice-looking young man—a very nice-looking young man, and had such a distinguished face. I am glad to have been reminded of his bow that day. Well, I am almost bowing myself now; yes, bowing to sleep, for I am quite worn out. Yes, I am growing old, my little greyheaded wife. Do you not notice it?
His Wife.
No, you are as handsome as ever.
The Man.
But are not my eyes just a little less bright than they used to be?
His Wife.
No. They flash as brilliantly as ever they did.
The Man.
And my hair—is it as jet-black as before?
His Wife.
No; but it is so snowily white that it looks even more beautiful.
The Man
And have I no wrinkles?
His Wife.
Oh, perhaps a little one or two, but——
The Man.
Oh yes, I know! I am a perfect Adonis. I will buy a uniform to-morrow, and take service in the light cavalry. Will that do, eh?
[His Wife bursts out laughing.]
His Wife.
Ah, now you are joking, just as you used to do. But lie down here, my darling, and take some sleep, while I go and sit by our boy. You may rest easy, for I shall not leave him, and when he wakes I will call you.—You will not mind kissing an old wrinkled hand, will you?
The Man.
Silence, silence! You are still the most beautiful woman that I have ever seen.
His Wife.
But are there no wrinkles on my face?
The Man.
Wrinkles? What wrinkles? I see only a beautiful, dear, kind, clever face—beyond that, nothing. You will not be angry with me for chiding you thus? Now go to our boy, and watch over him; spreading around his bed the calm halo of your love and tenderness. And if he should be restless in his sleep, sing to him a little lullaby, as you were wont to do, and place the grapes near his bedside, so that he may be able to reach them with his hand when he awakes.
[Exit the Man's Wife, while the Man lies down upon the couch with his head at the end which is nearest to the corner occupied by the motionless figure of the Being in Grey: so near, indeed, that the hand of the Being seems almost to be resting upon the Man's grey, dishevelled locks. In a moment the Man is asleep.]
The Being in Grey.
Thus in sound and happy slumber sleeps the Man—buoyed up with fond, delusive hopes. His breathing is as calm as that of a little child, and his aged heart beats evenly and quietly as he rests. He knows not that within a few seconds his son will have passed away for ever into the Infinite. Yet even as the Man lies there the shadowy mists of sleep are presenting to his vision a dream of happiness which shall never be. He dreams that he is with his son, and that together they are gliding in a fair white boat down a broad and peaceful river. It seems to him that it is a beautiful day in summer, and that he is gazing upon pure blue sky and water clear as crystal. He can hear the rustling of the reeds as they part before the boat, and in his heart he is joyous and hopeful. For all his senses are deceiving the Man.
Yet suddenly he grows uneasy. Some strange fancy has pierced the mists of sleep and seared his soul. "Why have thy golden locks been shorn, my boy? Why have they done that?"
"My head was hurting me, Papa. That is why they have shorn my locks." And once again, in his fond delusion, the Man feels happy as he gazes at the blue sky and listens to the rustling of the reeds as they part before the boat.
No; he knows not that at this moment his son is dying. He knows not that his beloved child is calling to him with a last voiceless cry of the soul as, in the throes of delirium, the boy's childish instinct turns once more to its belief in the superior strength of his elders. "Papa, Papa! I am dying! Save me, Papa!" No; the Man sleeps on, in sound and happy slumber, while secret, fleeting dreams continue to present to his vision a dream of happiness which shall never be.
Awake, Man, awake! Thy son is—dead!
[The man lifts his head with a frightened gesturey and rises to his feet.]
The Man.
I feel a sort of fear upon me. I thought I heard some one call.
[Almost at the same moment the sound of female voices in lamentation is heard behind the scenes, and the Man's Wife enters, looking as white as a sheet.]
The Man.
Our—our son? Is—is he dead?
His Wife.
Yes—he is dead!
The Man.
Did he call-to me just now?
His Wife.
No; he never returned to consciousness; he never recognized any one. Yes, he is dead—our son, our darling son!
[She falls to the ground before the Man, sobbing violently, and clasping him round the knees. The Man lays his hand protectingly upon her head as he turns towards the Being in Grey and exclaims in a choking voice:]
Villain! Thou hast wounded a woman, and thou hast killed a child!
[His Wife still continues sobbing, while the Man silently strokes her head with a trembling hand.]
The Man.
Do not weep, my darling; do not weep. Life only laughs at our tears, even as it has laughed at our prayers.
[Then, turning once more towards the Being in Grey, he exclaims:]
And for thee—Fate, Life, God, or Devil, whatsoever be thy name—I hereby curse thee!
[As the Man delivers the following curse he stands with one arm outstretched, as though shielding his Wife from danger, while the other arm he extends menacingly towards the Being in Grey.]
The Man's Curse.
Hereby I curse thee, and all that thou hast given me! I curse the day whereon I was born, and the day whereon I shall die! I curse my whole life, its joys and its sorrows! I curse myself, my ears, my eyes, my heart, my tongue, my head! All those things which thou hast given me I fling back in thy face, thou Fate, thou Demon! Cursed be thou—aye, cursed for ever! Yet with this very curse will I vanquish thee at the last. For, in truth, what more canst thou do unto me? Strike me, if thou wilt—aye, strike me to the ground: I will yet laugh aloud in thy face, and cry, "My curse be upon thee, my curse be upon thee!" Or fill my mouth full with the creeping worms of death: I will yet with my last breath gasp into thy obscene ears, "My curse be upon thee, my curse be upon thee!" Seize thou my carcase, gnaw it like a dog, worry, it in the outer darkness of hell: what though my soul have left it and be fled to other regions, I will yet repeat, again and again, "My curse be upon thee, my curse be upon thee!" Aye! By the head of this woman whom thou hast wounded, and by the body of this child whom thou hast slain, I curse thee, I curse thee—aye, I, the Man!
[For a little while he remains standing in silence, his arm raised in a menacing attitude. During the pronouncement of the curse the Being in Grey has made no sign. Only, the flame of the candle has flickered as with a breath of wind. Thus they stand facing one another—the Man and the Being in Grey; until gradually the sounds of lamentation behind the scenes grow louder, and merge into a concerted threnody as the curtain falls.]
[When the curtain rises the stage is discovered wrapped in a vague, dim, flickering light—the sort of light which makes it difficult to distinguish objects at the first glance. Gradually, however, as the eye grows accustomed to the gloom, the following picture begins to stand out from the obscurity.
[The scene is a large, low hall or cellar, to which there are neither doors nor windows, but which is entered by a ladder leading down from a trapdoor in the ceiling. The walls are bare of ornamentation, and so thickly encrusted with dirt that almost they seem to be covered with leather made out of the hide of some gigantic wild beast. Along the back wall runs a rudely constructed drinking-bar, containing rows of bottles filled with variously-coloured liquids; and in front of this bar the proprietor of the den is seated on a low stool, with his hands clasped over his stomach. His face is pale, save for a pair of brilliantly red cheeks, and his head bald, while his neck and chin are covered with a large tawny beard. His whole expression denotes absolute lethargy and indifference, and he retains this attitude unchanged throughout the entire Act—never at any time making the least modification in his posture.
[At a number of small tables persons of both sexes are seated drinking—the apparent number of these individuals being increased by the fantastic shadows which dart hither and thither over the walls and ceiling of the room. All have faces both horrible and repulsive, but in such infinite variety of ugliness that they resemble, rather, an assortment of hideous masks. Likewise, the majority of them have one or more features either grotesquely exaggerated or wholly absent, such, for instance, as a gigantic nose or no nose at all, eyes wildly protruding or shrunk to imperceptible slits, a throat horribly goitred or a chin receding to the point of deformity. Also, most of them have coarse, matted hair which covers the greater portion of their faces. Yet, despite this bizarre variety of feature, there is a marked similarity in the general appearance of these creatures—a similarity which finds its most distinctive characteristic in the greenish, corpselike hue with which their faces are overlaid, no matter whether the face be rudely jocular or convulsed with semi-maniacal fear and horror. As for the bodies of the drunkards, they are clad in the most miserable of rags, of a uniformly dull, monotonous colour, and disclosing here a livid, bony hand or knee, and there a deformed or concave chest. Indeed, some of the wretches are almost naked, whilst the Women are indistinguishable from the men, save for the fact that they are, if anything, the more uncouth. Men and women alike have tremulous hands and heads, and whenever a drunkard rises to walk about, he or she moves as though treading upon an exceedingly slippery, uneven, or unstable surface. Finally, the same timbre of voice—a sort of harsh and grating croak—is common to all, and they mouth their words as haltingly as they walk, with lips which seem frozen.
[At a table a little apart from the rest there sits the Man. His white, dishevelled head is bowed upon his arms, and he maintains this attitude unchanged until the moment, towards the close of the Act, when he rises and speaks for the last time. Like the drunkards, he is very poorly clad.
[In another corner of the room there stands the motionless figure of the Being in Grey. In the Beings hand a fast-expiring candle (its flame now grown thin and blue) is flickering heavily, as at one moment it droops downwards over the edge of the candlestick, and at another darts upwards into a fine point as it casts gleams of a lurid, deathlike hue over the statuesque face and chin of the Being.]
Dialogue of the Drunkards.
O my God, my God!
See how the room is heaving about! I can scarcely keep an eye fixed upon anything at all!
It is shivering as though with ague—ceiling, tables, floor, and walls!
It is as though we were at sea!
Hark! Do you hear that strange sound—a sound as of iron wheels being rattled, or of great stones rolling down a hillside—showers of stones as thick as raindrops?
Pooh! That sound is in your own ears. 'Tis the blood makes it. My blood too is playing me strange pranks, for it has turned all thick and black, and smells of vodka. It will scarce pass through the veins now, and when it draws near to the heart it dams itself up, and refuses to flow at all.
I can see lightning flashing, lightning flashing!
And I can see great funeral-piles, with men burning on them! I can smell the horrid smell of their roasting flesh I I can see black shadows dancing round them! Hi, shadows! Let me come and dance with you awhile!
O my God, my God!
I must have another dram. Who will join me? No one? Then a curse upon you all! I will drink alone.
See! A lovely woman is kissing me on the lips! She smells of musk, and her teeth are like a crocodile's I Ugh! She will bite me, she will bite me! Away, harridan!
I am no harridan. I am only an old serpent with young, and have been watching little serpents crawl out of my womb this hour past, or more. See the little devils, how they wriggle about! Hi, you! Do not you dare to tread upon my serpent brood!
Where are you off to?
Who is that going away? Sit down again. You make the whole room shake with your tread.
No, I dare not stay; I dare not sit down again.
Nor I. When I sit down I feel the horrors coming over me.
Over me too. Let me pass, I say!
[A number of the drunkards rise, and go surging towards the entrance-ladder—overturning some of the tables during their staggering progress.]
See what that monster is doing! For two hours past it has been trying to climb on to my lap, only it cannot succeed. I keep driving it away, yet it always returns. At what sort of a game is it playing?
I feel as though a swarm of cockroaches were buzzing about, and nesting in my skull.
And I as though my skull were splitting in two—as though the very brains were coming out of it. They must have turned all maggoty, those brains, for they smell like mouldy cheese.
Or, rather, like carrion.
O my God, my God!
To-night I am going to creep up to her on my hands and knees, and slit her throat for her. Yes, her blood shall flow to-night; that nice red blood of hers shall soon be streaming down her breast.
Three men keep following me about everywhere. Some day they mean to catch me alone in some dark, lonely spot, and murder me. At this very moment they are waiting for me outside.
What sort of a creature is it keeps walking about over the walls and ceiling?
O my God! They have come in! They are after me!
Who are?
Those three men! I cannot move hand or foot! Whatever shall I do? Whatever shall I do?
See! My clothes are slipping off me! Soon I shall be turned inside out—and a fine sight I shall look then!
Help, some one! Help! A monster is after me! It is seizing me by the hand! Help! Help!
What is it? God be with us! 'Tis a! monstrous spider! Help! Help!
[For a few moments some of the drunkards continue reiterating these cries for help.]
Oh, we are drunk; that is all. Go and call down the rest of the town. It is so cold and miserable up there.
No, no; I dare not ascend into the street. If I were to do so I should find her waiting for me, and raging like a wild beast. She would kill me, to a certainty.
Well, there are enough of us here already, so let us have some more liquor, and be merry.
No, no! It only gives me the horrors. I have been shaking with them this many an hour past.
Better the horrors than real life. Who would want to be sober, and to go back to real life?
Not I!
Nor I! I would rather stay down here. No, I have no wish to go back to life.
Nor has any one else.
O my God, my God!
Why does the Man come here? He drinks little, but he sits much. We don't want his company.
No, indeed! Let him go home, since he has a home to go to. 'Tis a home with sixteen rooms in it!
Yes, but they are empty now. Only the rats scamper and squeak in them.
But he has a wife?
No, she is dead.
[Throughout this dialogue the Old Women seen in Act I have, one by one, been entering the drinking den. Clad in the same weird garments as before, they seat themselves silently in places vacated by departing revellers. Likewise they continue to enter during the dialogue which follows. Neither their entry nor the fact of their interjecting scattered remarks into the general conversation seems to excite surprise among the company present, nor even to be noticed.]
Mingled Dialogue of Drunkards and Old Women.
The Man is near his end now. He can scarce stand for very weakness. Do you know, he has a mansion with sixteen rooms in it! Sixteen rooms!
Listen to the beating of his heart, how irregular and feeble it is! Soon it will have stopped for ever.
Hi, Man! Invite us to your mansion, since there are sixteen rooms in it.
Yes, that heart will soon have stopped for ever. It is an old, weak, diseased heart now.
He has gone to sleep, the drunken fool! This is a strange place to sleep in, but he seems able to do it. He might die in his sleep. Wake him up, some one.
Hi, Man! Wake up I
Think how that heart used to beat when it was young and strong.
[The Old Women chuckle,]
Who says more liquor? By the way, there seems to be a larger company present now.
What do you mean? I see only the same company as before.
I am going up into the street to raise the alarm! I have been robbed! I am nearly naked I See how my green skin is showing through!
Well, go; and good luck to you!
Do you remember the night when the Man was born? I think you were present on that occasion?
I am dying, I am dying! O my God! Who will carry me to the grave, or lay me in it? My corpse will be left to cumber the streets like a dog's, to be trodden upon by passers-by, to be ridden over and crushed! O my God, my God!
Do you remember the Relations saying, "Let us congratulate you, dear kinsman, on the birth of a son"?
I am certain you are wrong when you say that the circle can be squared. I will prove to you how absurd it is.
Well, you may be right.
O my God, my God!
Only an ignoramus in geometry would make such an assertion. I do not admit it—do you hear? I do not admit it.
Do you remember how the Man's Wife looked, in her poor pink dress and shabby hair-riband?
Yes; and the flowers, too—the May lilies with the dew not dry upon them, the violets, and the grasses?
"Do not touch them, dear: children; do not touch the flowers."
[The Old yeomen chuckle.]
O my God, my God!
[By this time the drunkards have all departed, and their places been taken by the Old Women. The light has been growing steadily fainter, until only the form of the Being in Grey and the white, drooping head of the Man stand out clearly under shafts of light fatting upon them from above.]
Dialogue of the Old Women alone.
Good evening to you!
And to you! What a glorious night it is!
We are all here, are we not? How are you?
I have caught a little cold, I think.
[The Old Women chuckle.]
This time we shall not have very long to wait. Death and the Man have nearly met.
See the candle! See its thin, blue, ragged flame! It has almost no wax now—only wick.
Yes; but it seems reluctant to go out?
Well? Are not all candles reluctant to go out?
Come, come! No quarrelling, no quarrelling! Whether the candle chooses to go out or not, the Man's time is fast ebbing away.
Do you remember his motor-car? Once it nearly ran me down.
And his mansion, too, with the sixteen rooms in it?
Yes. I was in them a short while ago. The rats nearly devoured me, and the draughts nearly blew me away, for some one had stolen the window-frames from their sockets, and the wind was tearing through the rooms.
And you had a snooze on the very bed on which his Wife died, did you not? Oh, you sentimental old thing!
I did. But I must confess that some queer thoughts passed through my mind as I wandered through those rooms. There used to be such a charming nursery in the mansion, and I felt hurt to see that its windows were all shattered, and that the wind was blowing the dust in clouds over the floor. And there used to be such a lovely little cradle in the room! Now the rats are making their nests in that nursery, and rocking their children to sleep in that cradle.
Oh the dear little naked rat-children!
[The Old Women chuckle.]
And on a table in the study, I saw some broken toys—a little horse without a tail, a pasteboard helmet, and a red-nosed clown doll. I played with them each in turn, and tried on the helmet. It would have suited me well enough if it had only been a trifle less mouldy and covered with dust.
And surely you paid a visit to the grand salon where the ball was given that night? What a gay scene it was!
Yes, I went in there too. But judge of my surprise when I found it in darkness, with the windows broken, and the wind whistling round the cornices!
Ah! That would serve as music.
Yes, of course. And the walls were all lined with guests—with guests sitting there in the darkness! You should have seen how queer they looked!
We can imagine it.
And you should have heard them ejaculating with their old wheedling lips, "How rich it all is! How sumptuous!"
Oh, you are joking!
Yes, I am only joking. You know my playful disposition.
How "rich" indeed, how "sumptuous," everything must have looked when you went in!
Man, do you remember the tune that played at your ball?
Ah! he is near his death now.
Do you remember how the dancers surrounded you, and how tenderly, how bewitchingly, the music played? It played like this.
[The Old Women form a semicircle around the Man, and begin softly to hum the tune which was played at his ball.]
Let us have a ball ourselves. It is so long since, I had a dance!
Very well. "Imagine this to be a palace—a supernaturally beautiful palace."
First of all we must call the musicians. One cannot have a proper ball without music.
The musicians?
Yes, certainly. Do you not remember them?
[The Old Women give a shrill cry, and instantly there are seen coming down the ladder the same three musicians who played at the Man's ball. The fiddler folds a handkerchief on his shoulder, to form a pad for his fiddle, and they begin to play with extraordinary energy. Yet the music is soft and low, as in a dream.]
Now we can have our ball!
"How rich it all is!"
"How sumptuous!"
"How brilliant!"
Do you remember it, Man?
[Softly humming to the music, the Old Women begin to circle round the Man—mouthing with their lips, and making, a horrible travesty of the movements of the white-robed dancers who danced at the Man's ball. To the first phrase of the tune they whirl themselves round; to the second they converge and retire; to the third and fourth they whirl themselves round in their places—stepping softly, and on tiptoe, as, at intervals, they whisper, in the Man's ear:]
Do you remember it, Man?
You are going to die soon, but do you remember it?
Do you remember it?
Do you remember it?
You are going to die soon, but do you remember it?
[The dance becomes swifter, the motions more abandoned, and strange, wailing notes begin to make themselves heard in the voices of the Old Women as they hum the tune, and reiterations of weird laughter to run softly round the circle like a ripple. Each time that the dancers pass before the Man they shoot into his ear such whispered ejaculations as:]
Do you remember it, Man?
Do you remember it?
How ravishing it all was—how voluptuous? How delightful to the soul?
Do you remember it, Man?
You are going to die soon!
You are going to die soon!
You are going to die soon!
Do you remember it, Man?
[Still more swiftly the Old Women circle in the dance; still more wild and uncouth their antics become. Suddenly all become stricken to silence, and come to a dead stop—even the musicians standing arrested in the exact attitudes of playing, and remaining perfectly silent and motionless. The Man rises, and tries to stand upright, with his handsome grey head shaking tremulously. Lastly, in a startlingly loud voice—a voice charged with entreaty, wrath, and mortal agony—he cries out, with a pause between each several phrase:]
Where is my armour-bearer?—Where is my sword?—Where is my buckler?—I am without arms!—To my aid!—Speed!—Speed!—My curse be upon——-
[He falls back dead upon the chair, with his head bowed upon his breast. At the same moment the candle in the hand of the Being in Grey gives a last flicker and goes out. Instantly the scene becomes wrapped in deep shadow—a shadow which seems to come creeping, down the entrance-ladder, and gradually to envelop the whole. Finally, no light whatever is left upon the stage but a solitary shaft resting upon the head of the corpse. Only a low, vague murmuring can be heard proceeding from the Old Women—a sort of whispering and chuckling.]
The Being in Grey.
Silence ye! A man is dead!
[Again there is silence; save that a cold, passionless voice is heard re-echoing as from a great distance, "Silence ye! A man is dead!" Slowly the gloom deepens, though the crouching, mouselike forms of the Old Women still remain faintly visible in the obscurity.
[Presently they begin to circle around the corpse again—at first without a word or sound of any kind, but gradually with renewed humming of the refrain of the tune. Also, the musicians begin again to play, but With music that is soft and low like dream music; until, in proportion as the gloom deepens, the strains of the musicians and the humming of the Old Women grow louder, the dance recovers its former wildness and abandon, and the revelry becomes, not so much a dance, as a furious swirl and rush around the dead Man—a movement accompanied by stamping of feet, shrill yells, and frequent bursts of weird laughter. In time the darkness becomes complete, except for the shaft of light which is resting upon the head of the corpse; until this also is extinguished, and the scene becomes wrapped in a blackness of obscurity which the eye cannot pierce. From its depths come sounds of the dancers' wild movements, yells, bursts of laughter, and the now strident, discordant strains of the musicians. At length, when the combined din has attained the extreme pitch of pandemonium, the sounds are suddenly wafted away to, apparently, a great distance, and die away. Then again there is silence—absolute, unbroken silence.]