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Title: The Life of Man: A Play in Five Acts

Author: Leonid Andreyev

Translator: C. J. Hogarth

Release date: September 2, 2015 [eBook #49852]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by David Widger from page images generously
        provided by the Internet Archive


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LIFE OF MAN: A PLAY IN FIVE ACTS ***




Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by the Internet Archive









THE LIFE OF MAN

A Play In Five Acts

By Leonidas Andreyev

Translated By C. J. Hogarth

London: George Allen & Unwin Ltd. New York: The Macmillan Company.

1915

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

The Being in Grey.

The Father of the Man.

The Man.

The Man's Wife.

First Doctor.

Second Doctor.

An Old Serving Woman.

Old Women of a Semi-supernatural Character.

Musicians; Friends, Enemies, and Relations of the Man; Guests at the
Man's Ball, etc.

PROLOGUE

[_A Being, clad in Grey, is speaking. He is speaking of the Life of
Man._

[_The stage presents the semblance of a large, square, empty room which
has neither doors nor windows, and within which all is uniformly grey
and misty. The ceiling, walls, and floor are grey, and from some hidden
source there flows a stream of dim, unflickering light, of the same
dull, monotonous, elusive colour. This light throws no shadows, nor is
reflected back from any point._

[_Without a sound the Being in Grey detaches himself from the wall, with
which he has almost seemed to mingle. He is clothed in a loose, grey,
shapeless habit, roughly outlining a gigantic frame, and his head is
veiled in a cowl of the all-pervading hue. This cowl throws the upper
portion of his face into deep shadow, so that no eyes, but only a nose,
mouth, and prominent chin are visible; all of which features are as
clear-cut in outline and granite-like in texture as though they were
hewn of grey stone. At first his lips are tightly compressed; until
presently he raises his head a little, and begins to speak in a stern,
Cold voice--a voice as destitute of passion or emotion as that of some
hired clerk reading aloud, with dry nonchalance, the records of a court
of law._]

Look ye and listen, ye who have come hither for sport and laughter; for
there is about to pass before you, from its mysterious beginning to its
mysterious close, the whole life of a Man.

Hitherto without being; hidden away in the womb of eternity; possessed
neither of thought nor feeling; remote from the range of human ken,--the
Man bursts, in some unknown manner, the bars of non-existence, and
announces with a cry the beginning of his brief life. In the night of
non-existence there bursts forth also a little candle, lit by an unseen
hand. It is the life of that Man. Mark well its flame: for it is the
life of that Man.

Born, the Man assumes the name and image of humanity, and becomes in
all things like unto other men who dwell upon the earth. Their hard lot
becomes his, and his, in turn, becomes the lot of all who shall come
after him. Drawn on inexorably by time, it is not given him to see the
next rung on which his faltering foot shall fall. Bounded in knowledge,
it is not given him to foretell what each succeeding hour, what each
succeeding minute, shall have in store for him. In blind nescience, in
an agony of foreboding, in a whirl of hopes and fears, he completes the
sorry cycle of an iron destiny.

First we see him a joyous youth. Mark how clearly the candle burns! Icy
winds from! desert wastes may eddy round it and pass by. Its flame may
flicker gently, but it still remains quite bright and clear. Yet the wax
is ever melting as the flame consumes it--yet the wax is ever melting.

Next we see him a happy man and father. Mark how dim, how strange, is
now the candle's glimmer! Its flame is growing pale and wrinkled, it
shivers as with cold, and its light is feebler than of yore. For the wax
is ever melting as the flame consumes it--for the wax is ever melting.

Lastly we see him an old man, weak and ailing. The rungs of the ladder
have all been climbed, and only a black abyss yawns before his faltering
foot. The flame of the candle is drooping earthward, and turning to
a faint blue. It droops and quivers, it droops and quivers--and then
softly goes out.

Thus the Man dies. Come from darkness, into darkness he returns, and
is reabsorbed, without a trace left, into the illimitable void of time.
There there is neither thought not feeling, nor any intercourse with
men. And I, the Unknown, shall remain ever the fellow-traveller of that
Man--through all the days of his life, through all his journeyings.
Though unseen by him and his companions, I shall ever be by his side. Be
he waking or sleeping, be he praying or blaspheming; in the hour of joy,
when his soul soars free and fearless; in the hour of sorrow, when
his spirit is o'ershadowed by the languor of death, and the blood is
curdling back upon his heart; in the hour of victory or defeat as he
wages his great contest with the Inevitable,--I shall be with him, I
shall ever be with him.

And ye who have come hither for sport and laughter (ye who none the less
must die also), look ye and listen: for there is about to pass before
you, and to reveal to you its joys and its sorrows, the brief, fleeting
life of a Man.

[_Once more the Being in Grey is silent; and as his voice ceases, the
light becomes wholly extinguished, and his form and the grey, empty room
are swallowed up in impenetrable darkness_. ]


CURTAIN.




ACT I--THE BIRTH OF THE MAN

[_The stage is in deep shadow--nothing being visible amid the gloom save
the silhouetted grey forms of some old, women and the faint outlines of
a large and lofty chamber. Clad in weird, shapeless garments, the old
women look, as they crouch together, like a little cluster of grey mice.
They are talking in low tones._]

~Dialogue of the Old Women.~~

I wish I knew which her baby is going to be--a boy or a girl.

Whatever can it matter to _you?_

Nothing; except that I prefer boys.

And _I_ prefer girls. They sit quietly at home, and make company when
one wants a gossip.

Oh, you are so fond of company!

[_The Old Women give a chuckle._]

The woman herself is hoping it will be a girl, for she says that boys
are too boisterous and headstrong, and too fond of running into danger.
While they are little (she says) they are for ever climbing tall trees
and bathing in deep water; and when they are grown up they take to.
fighting, and killing one another.

Pooh! Does she think that _girls_ never get drowned? Many a drowned
girl's corpse have I seen, and they looked as all drowned corpses
do--wet and livid and swollen.

And does she think that gauds and jewellery never yet brought a girl to
her death?

Ah, poor thing! she is having a hard and painful childbed of it. Here
have we been sitting these sixteen mortal hours, and she screaming the
whole time! True, she is quieter now, and only gasps and moans, but, a
short while ago, it fairly split one's ears to hear her!

The doctor thinks she is going to die.

No, no! What the doctor said was that the _child_ will be born dead, but
the mother herself recover.

But why need there be births at all? They are such painful things!

Well, why need there be deaths either? They are more painful still, are
they not?

[_The Old Women chuckle again._]

Ah well, 'tis the way of the world--births and deaths, births and
deaths.

Yes; and then more births.

[_For the third time the Old Women chuckle. At the same moment there is
heard behind the scenes a stifled cry, as of a woman in agony._]

There! She is going to scream again!

Well, at least it is a good sign that she has recovered her voice.

Yes, it is a good sign.

That poor husband of hers! The silly fool is in such a way about it that
it makes one almost die of laughing to see him. A short while ago he was
in raptures because his wife was pregnant, and kept saying that he hoped
the baby would be a boy. Perhaps he thought that any boy of _his_ would
grow up to be a Minister of State or a general at the very least! But
now he wants neither boy nor girl, but only fusses about and weeps.

When the pangs come upon her he seems to suffer almost as much as she
does. He grows absolutely livid in the face!

A short while ago they sent him to the chemist's for some medicine; but,
after kicking his heels about outside the shop for two mortal hours, he
was still unable to remember what he had come for, and had to go home
again empty-handed.

[_The Old Women burst into renewed chuckles, while the screams
behind the scenes increase for a moment, and then die away again into
silence._]

What ails her now? Surely she has not expired?

Not she! Had that been so, we should have heard the waiters beginning
their lament, and the doctor running about the house, and chattering his
foolish nonsense. Besides, her husband would have been gone off into a
dead faint and been brought in here, and then _we_ should have had some
work to do. No, no; she's not dead.

Then why need we stay here longer?

Oh, ask _Him_. How can _we_ tell what is going to happen?

He never tells us _anything_--never!

No, indeed! He is a perfect pest to us--for ever pulling us out of our
beds, and setting us to watch, and then telling us that we need not have
come after all!

Nevertheless, since we _are_ here, we may as well do something. There!
She is screaming again! Anyway, we could not help coming, could we?

No; he gave us no choice in the matter. Yet surely you have had enough
watching by now?

Oh, I just sit quiet and wait--sit quiet and wait.

What a patient old lady you are, to be sure!

[_The Old Women chuckle again, and the screams grow louder._]

How dreadful those screams sound! What agony she must be in! Do you know
what that agony is like? It is like having one's entrails torn out.

Oh, we have all been through it in our time.

Yes, but I doubt whether _she_ has before. Listen to that voice of hers!
One would hardly know it to be hers at all. It used to be such a sweet
and gentle one.

Well, 'tis more like the howl of a wild beast now. Besides, it has a
sort of a night sound in it.

Yes. It puts me in mind of great, dark, lonely forests, and of utter
solitude and desolation.

Yes; and of despair and a broken heart. But is there no one in the
room with her? Why is it we hear no voices but hers--no voices but that
terrible, yelling, shrieking voice of hers?

Oh, there are people in the room with her, only we do not seem to remark
their voices when she is screaming. Have you never noticed that a scream
always appears to stand out from other sounds? No matter how many
persons there be talking and chattering together, let but a scream be
uttered, and the whole world seems to be struck silent and listening to
it.

Yes, once I heard a man cry out as he was being run over by a wagon. The
street was full of people at the time, yet at the moment he might have
been the only one in it.

But this is a stranger sound than any _man_ could utter.

Perhaps it is a trifle more _shrill_.

No, no, it is more prolonged.

Perhaps you are right. It is a stranger sound than any man could utter.
Besides, it has the ring of death in it.

Well? Was there not a ring of death in that man's cry as well? He died,
didn't he?

Yes, yes; but never mind. We need not quarrel about it.

[_For a moment there is silence. Then the screams begin again._]

What a strange thing is a scream! If it is you yourself who are
screaming you never notice how horrible the screams sound: but if it is
some one else------

What throat can possibly produce such a noise as she is making? Surely
it cannot be a woman's throat? No, no; I cannot believe it!

The cries sound as though her neck were being twisted round and round.

Or as though the cries were coming from some deep hollow in her chest.
Now they are more like the gasps of a drowning man. Listen to the
choking noise she is making!

It sounds as though some heavy person were kneeling on her chest.

Or as though she were being strangled.

[_The screams suddenly cease._]

There! At last she is quiet again. I was getting tired of it all. It was
such a monotonous, ugly screaming.

Did you expect to find it _beautiful_, then?

[_The Old Women chuckle._]

Hush! Is _He_ here?

I do not know.

I believe He is.

He does not approve of laughter.

They say He laughs Himself at times.

Who knows? It is mere gossip. They tell so many strange stories about
Him.

Anyway, He might hear us, so we had better keep a straight face upon us.

[_The Old Women chuckle again._]

What I want to know is--Will the baby be a boy or a girl?

Yes, 'tis always nice to know what one is going to deal with.

I hope it may die before birth.

How kind of you!

Not more so than of you.

And _I_ trust it may grow up to be a general.

[_The Old Women chuckle again._]

Some of you are very merry now. I do not quite like it.

And _I_ do not quite like your looking so gloomy.

No quarrelling, no quarrelling! Every one must be either merry or
gloomy; so let each be what she pleases.

[_There is a pause_.]

_Babies_ are merry enough things, if you like.

Yes, and spoilt too.

And troublesome as well. I cannot abide them. As soon as ever they
are born they begin to cry out, and to beg for what they want, just as
though everything ought to be ready to their hand at once. Even before
they can see out of their eyes they have learnt that there are such
things in the world as a breast and milk, and straightway they ask for
them. Then they need to be put to bed, and to be rocked to sleep, and to
have their little red backs patted. For my part, I like them best when
they are dying.

Then they grow less clamorous--they just stretch themselves out, and
require rocking to sleep no more.

But they are such _playful_ little dears! How I love to wash them just
after they are born!

And _I_ to wash them just after they are dead!

No quarrelling, no quarrelling! Each to her own taste. One loves to wash
them after they, are born, and another to wash them after they are dead.
That is all about it.

But what right have babies to think that they may cry for what they
want? It does not seem to me the proper thing.

They think nothing at all about it. 'Tis their stomach which does the
asking.

But 'tis _they_ who do the actual asking, is it not?

Perhaps so; but they do not always get.

[_The Old Women chuckle again. Presently the screams recommence behind
the scenes._]

There! She is screaming again!

'Tis a strange 'fact, but animals seem to have easier young-bearing than
women do.

Yes, and easier dying too--and easier living, into the bargain. You
should see how sleek and contented my cat is!

The same with my dog. Every day I say to him, '_Your_ turn too will
come to die,' but he only grins at me, and goes on wagging his tail as
merrily as ever.

Ah, but they are only animals.

Well, and what else are women?

[_Again the Old Women chuckle._]

Dying, or about to be delivered, she has nearly come to the end of her
strength now. You can tell that by the sound of her cries.

I can see her eyes starting!

And the cold sweat on her brow!

[_Again the Old Women chuckle._]

She is about to be delivered!

No, she is dying!

[_Suddenly the screams cease._]

I tell you----

[_At this instant the Being in Grey stands out momentarily in clearer
relief as he exclaims in a deep, sonorous voice:_]

Silence ye! A man is being born into the world.

[_And almost as he speaks the cry of a baby is heard behind the scenes,
and the tall candle in the hand of the Being bursts into flame. At first
weak and, fitful, the flame grows stronger by degrees; yet though the
corner in which the Being is standing is in deeper shadow than the rest
of the scene, the candle's yellow light is in minates only his tightly
compressed lips, high cheekbones, and prominent chin, while the rest
of his face remains hidden, as before, in the shadow of the cowl. In
stature he is above the ordinary height of man, and the candle in
his hand is proportionately tall and massive. Set in a candlestick of
antique design (the green bronze of which causes the fingers encircling
it to show up grey and stonelike as those of some statue'), the candle
burns up with sufficient brightness to make the crouching forms of the
Old Women stand out clearly from the obscurity. Also, the room is now
seen to be a high and perfectly square apartment, with bare, colourless
walls; while both in the back wall and in the wall to the right are
curtainless casement windows, through which the outer night shows
darkly. Ranged against the walls are a number of chairs with high,
straight backs._]

[_The Old Women begin to utter excited exclamations._]

Hark! People are hurrying about! Presently they will be coming in here!

How light it is growing! Let us go, let us go!

See how clearly and steadily the candle burns!

Yes, let us go, let us go! Quickly, quickly!

Yes, let us go, let us go!

[_Bursting into shrill laughter, they begin with weird, zigzag movements
to shuffle away through the gloom. Yet, though, with their departure,
the light grows stronger, there still remains a dim, cold, lifeless air
about the scene._

[_Enter a Doctor, accompanied by the Father of the Man. The Doctor is
clad in a white hospital overall, and wears a look at once wise and
self-important. Contrariwise, the Father's face, though expressive of
great relief, is deeply scored with anxiety. Also, his cheeks look
sunken, his hair is dishevelled, and his clothes are in much disorder._]

~The Doctor.~~

Up to; the very last moment I was in doubt as to whether your wife would
come safely through it. I brought all my knowledge and skill to bear
upon her, but even the most skilful doctor is of little avail unless
Nature herself come to his aid. Besides, I was feeling very nervous.
Even yet my pulse is throbbing. Curiously enough, though I have helped
to bring hundreds of babies into the world, I have never yet succeeded
in overcoming a certain feeling of diffidence during the opera---- But
you are not listening to me, sir?

~The Father.~~

Oh yes, I am listening to you, but I cannot altogether take in what
you say. Her screams still ring in my ears, and have made me dull of
comprehension. Poor woman, how she suffered! In my folly and conceit I
was so anxious to have a child, but now I renounce that criminal wish
for ever.

~The Doctor.~~

Oh, you will soon be sending for me again, when the next baby arrives.

~The Father.~~

No, never! I am almost ashamed to say it, but I actually _hate_ this
child which has put her to such pain. I have not even seen it. What is
it like?

~The Doctor.~~

It is a fine, strong, healthy boy, and greatly, resembles yourself, if I
mistake not.

~The Father.~~

Oh, it resembles me, does it? Well, I am pleased at that! I begin to
feel a little more drawn towards the child. It had always been my desire
to have a boy--and especially one which resembled myself. You have seen
the child. Has it, then, a nose like mine?

~The Doctor.~~

Yes, and eyes too.

~The Father.~~

_And_ eyes? Oh, that is capital! I feel as though I ought to pay you a
trifle over your fee.

~The Doctor.~~

Well, let us call it an extra honorarium for the instruments which I had
to use.

[_The Father of the Man turns towards the corner wherein the figure of
the Being in Grey stands motionless, and utters the following prayer:_]

~The Father.~~

O Lord and Creator of Life, I thank Thee for according me my heart's
desire, and granting me a son like myself. I thank Thee also for
watching over my beloved wife, and enabling her to bear the child in
safety. I beseech Thee that the child may grow up wise and honourable,
and that he may never at any time bring sorrow upon the heads of us, his
father and mother. If Thou wilt grant me this my petition, I swear that
I will trust in Thee for ever, and worship Thee in Thy Holy Temple. For
I feel a great love arising in me for my son.

[_Enter the Relations, to the number of six. First, there is a stout,
elderly lady who has a double chin, small, puffy eyes, and a pompous,
self-important manner. Next, there is her husband, who is so tall
and thin that his clothes seem literally to hang on him, as on a
clothes-peg. Also, he has spectacles, a short, pointed beard, smooth,
damp-looking hair which straggles over his shoulders, and a manner
which, though diffident, is also curiously didactic. In his hands he
holds a black, low-crowned hat, and he appears to stand in awe of his
wife. These two are accompanied by a young girl, their daughter, who has
an impudently upturned nose, twinkling eyes, and a mouth perpetually
half-open. Likewise there is a tall, thin lady, of sour, depressed mien,
who at times wipes her lips with the handkerchief perpetually dangling
from her hands. Finally, there are two youths, precisely identical in
appearance, with long, thin necks encased in high collars, hair smoothly
plastered over their foreheads, and an expression of bewilderment and
vacuity on their faces which would seem to denote that their mental
faculties are, as yet, but in the growing stage._ ]

~Elderly Lady.~~

Let me congratulate you, my dear brother, on the birth of a son.

~Her Husband.~~

Let me congratulate you, my dear brother-in-law, on the advent of this
long-expected child.

~The Rest.~~

(_In unison._) We all of us congratulate you, our dear kinsman.

~The Father.~~

(_With much emotion._) I thank you--I thank you all! You are most kind,
good, and charming people, and I am greatly beholden to you. True,
hitherto I had felt a little doubtful concerning you; for I had thought
that you, my dear sister, were too much taken up with yourself and
your many estimable qualities; that you, my dear brother-in-law, were
inclined to be a trifle pedantic; and, as regards the rest, that they
cared less for myself than for what they could get to eat at my house.
But now I see that I was wrong. I am very happy, not only because I have
been granted a son who is like myself, but also, because the birth of
this child has afforded me an opportunity of seeing here so many good
people who love me.

[_There is general embracing._]

~The Daughter.~~

What do you intend to _call_ your son, dear Uncle? I should so like him
to have a beautiful, poetic name I It makes so much difference what one
calls a boy.

~Elderly Lady.~~

_I_ should like him to have a plain, sensible: name. People with
beautiful, poetic names are always light-minded, and seldom get on in
life.

~Her Husband.~~

And _I_ think, my dear brother-in-law, that you ought to give him
the name of one of his elder relatives. It is a custom which tends to
continue and strengthen family ties.

~The Father.~~

Yes. But first my wife and I must think the matter over. We cannot come
to a decision yet. So many new ideas and responsibilities arise with the
advent of a baby!

~Elderly Lady.~~

It is an event which imparts a great _fulness_ to life.

~Her Husband.~~

Yes, and also a great sense of _purpose in life._ For, as we educate a
child--removing out of its path those obstacles over which we ourselves,
in early days, have stumbled, and strengthening its mind with the aid of
our own matured experience--we, as it were, construct a new and better
replica of ourselves, and thus enable the race to move slowly, but
surely, forward towards the ultimate goal of existence--towards
_perfection_.

~The Father.~~

You are quite right, most estimable brother-in-law. When I was a boy
I used to torment dumb animals, and the practice bred in me cruelty:
wherefore I shall never allow my son to be unkind to any living thing.
Again, when I was grown up I fell into many, errors as regards the
bestowal of my friendship and affections--I chose unworthy comrades, and
loved deceitful women; but now I shall warn my son that----

[_Enter the Doctor hurriedly._]

~The Doctor.~~

Sir, your wife has taken a turn for the worse. You ought to go and see
her at once.

~The Father.~~

My God!

[_Exit with the Doctor, while the Relations seat themselves in a
semicircle, and for a while preserve a solemn silence. Meanwhile the
Being in Grey stands motionless as before, with his stony face turned
towards the company,_]

~Dialogue of the Relations.~~

~The Husband.~~

My dear wife, do you not think that our sister-in-law is going to die?

~Elderly Lady.~~

No, I do not. She was always a nervous, fidgety woman--a woman who made
overmuch of her ailments. All of us have to go through childbed, and few
of us die of it. Why, I myself have been through it six times!

~The Daughter.~~

But she screamed so dreadfully, mother dear? And she grew quite black in
the face with it?

~Elderly Lady.~~

It was not with screaming; it was a mere nervous flush. You do not
understand these things. _I_ used to turn quite black in the face,
though I never uttered a single scream.

Not long ago the wife of an engineer of my acquaintance had a baby, and
she never uttered a sound from start to finish.

I know. My brother should not grow so alarmed, but keep himself in hand,
and take a saner, cooler view of things.

I am afraid he will bring much indulgence and absurdity to bear upon the
education of this child.

Yes. He is a man much too easily influenced. Though anything but rich,
he gives away money to the most undeserving people.

Do you know how much he paid for this child's _layette?_

Do not speak of it! My brother's extravagance fairly sickens me! We have
had many quarrels about it.

They say it is a stork which brings the babies. What a funny stork it
must be!

[_The young people laugh._]

Oh, do not talk such nonsense. I myself have brought six babies into the
world, and _I_ am no stork.

[_The young people laugh still more unrestrainedly, despite the fact
that the Elderly Lady is regarding them with a fixed and stony stare._]

Really, you children ought to know that that is a mere fable. Babies
are born quite naturally, and in a way which is perfectly familiar to
science.

They have moved to another flat now.

Who have?

That engineer and his wife of whom I was speaking. They found their old
quarters too damp and cold. They made many complaints to the landlord,
but he took no notice of them.

In my opinion a small, but warm, flat is preferable to a large, but
cold, one. A cold flat can so easily give one one's death of influenza
or rheumatism!

I know some people who are living in a _terribly_ cold flat.

And I too.

What a number of cold flats there seem to be nowadays!

Do you know, I have often wanted to hear of a good method for removing
grease stains from light materials.

Woollen materials?

No, silken.

Very well, then. Take a piece of clean glass, and rub the stains with
it. Then, after plenty of friction, iron with a hot iron.

Really? How simple! But I was told that turpentine is best?

May we smoke now? Somehow I never felt a desire to smoke while we were
waiting for the birth of that baby.

We never had a chance to do so. How absurd! Of course one would not want
to smoke at a _funeral_, but on such an occasion as this we really----

Smoking is a most pernicious habit. Both of you are young men, and ought
to guard your health. There are so many occasions in after-life when
health is everything.

But tobacco gives one a stimulus?

Believe me, it is a very unhealthy stimulus. I too used to smoke when I
was young and foolish.

Mamma, how the baby cries! How it does cry! Does it want milk?

[_The young people burst into renewed laughter, while the Elderly Lady
regards them with a stern air of reproval._]


CURTAIN.




ACT II--LOVE AND POVERTY

[_The stage is in clear light, while the scene represents a large, lofty
room with bare walls of a bright pink colour that is intersected, in
places, with grey tracery fantastically designed. To the right are two
curtainless casement windows through which the outer night shows darkly,
while the furniture consists of a couple of bedsteads, two chairs, and
a rough deal table, on the latter of which stands a broken water-jug,
holding a bunch of wild flowers. In one corner (which is in deeper
shadow than the rest of the apartment) stands the Being in Grey. The
candle in his hand is burnt away for a third of its length, yet its
flame remains steady, bright, and tall, and throws the statuesque face
of the Being into strong relief._]

[_Enter a group of Neighbours, dressed in holiday attire, and carrying
in their hands flowers, wild grasses, and sprigs of oak and birch. They
disperse themselves about the room, looking cheerful, kindly, simple,
and solicitous as they do so._]

~Dialogue of the Neighbours.~~

How poor they must be! See, they have not even a spare chair.

Nor curtains to the windows!

Nor pictures on the walls!

Nor a morsel in their larder except some stale bread!

Nor anything to drink but water--cold water from the well!

Nor sufficient clothes to wear! For she is always to be seen in the
same worn-out pink dress and frayed hair-riband--things only fit for a
servant-girl to wear, and _he_ is never to be seen in anything but an
artist's blouse with turned-down collar--a garment which makes him look
like a tramp, and sets all the dogs barking at him.

Yes, so much so that respectable people are afraid of him.

Dogs never like poor people. Yesterday I saw no fewer than three dogs
flying at him at once; yet he only cried, as he beat them off with his
stick: "Do not you dare to tear my trousers! They are the only ones I
have left!"

All the time he was laughing, though the dogs were showing their teeth
at him, and growling most furiously.

And only to-day I saw a smart lady and gentleman so nervous at his
appearance that they crossed to the other side of the road to avoid
passing him. "I think he is going to beg of us," the gentleman said, and
the lady exclaimed shrilly that probably he would assault them as well.
So they crossed over--eyeing him carefully as they did so, and keeping a
tight hold upon their pockets. But he only tossed his head and laughed.

Yes, he is always in good spirits.

Both of them are like that--always merry.

Yes, and singing too; or, rather, he sings, and she dances to his
singing, in that poor pink dress of hers and shabby riband!

It is quite a pleasure to look at them, they are so youthful and
handsome.

All the same, I feel very, very sorry for them. At times they are almost
starving. To think of it!--starving!

Yes, too true. Once upon a time they had plenty of furniture and
clothes; but, little by little, they have had to sell them, until now
they have nothing at all left.

Yes, I remember the time when she used to wear beautiful serge dresses;
but now those dresses have had to go for bread.

And he used to wear a fine frockcoat--the one in which he got married;
but that too has had to go.

In fact, the only valuables they have left to them are their
wedding-rings. What poverty, to be sure!

Oh, they do not care, they do not care! I too have been young, and know
how one takes things at that age.

What do you say, Grandfather?

I say that they do not care, they do not care.

See, it almost makes Grandfather sing, even to think of them!

Yes, and dance too!

[_There is general laughter._]

And her husband is _so_ kindhearted! One day he made my little boy a
bow-and-arrows.

And when my little girl fell ill his wife wept almost as much as I did.

And when my garden wall fell down he helped me to build it up in no
time. What a fine strong fellow he is, to be sure!

Yes, it is quite pleasant to have such kindly folks for neighbours.
Their youthfulness helps to warm our chilly old age, and their
lightheartedness to drive away our care.

But this poor room of theirs looks like a prison-cell, it is so bare.

Nay. Say, rather, it is like a church, it is so bright!

See the flowers on the table! She ha's been plucking them as she
walked through the fields, in that poor pink gown of hers and faded
hair-riband. Here are some May lilies, with the dew not dry upon them.

And a bright red pineflower.

And violets.

And field grasses.

Do not touch them, dear children--do not touch the flowers. She has
imprinted her kiss upon them, so we must not let them fall to the
ground. She has breathed her sweet breath upon them, so we must not
mingle our breath with hers. Do not touch them, dear children--do not
touch them.

She means him to see them the moment he enters the room.

Yes, and to receive her sweet kisses from them.

And to scent her dear breath in theirs.

Come! We must go now, we must go now.

But surely we did not come here to leave nothing behind us for these
charming young neighbours of ours? That would be a sorry thing to do!

I have brought a loaf of spiced bread and a bottle of milk.

And I some sweet, fresh herbs. If we strew; the floor with them it will
look like a verdant meadow, and smell of spring.

And I some flowers.

And we some sprigs of oak and birch, with their pretty green leaves. If
we deck the walls with them the room will look like a fresh, luxuriant
arbour.

And my present is a fine cigar. It did not cost very much, but it is
mellow and strong, and will be a splendid thing to dream over.

And I have brought her a new pink hair-riband. When she has bound up her
hair with it she will look so neat and charming! It was given me by my
sweetheart, but _I_ have many ribands, whereas she has only one.

And what have _you_ brought with you, little girl? Surely you have
brought some present for our good neighbours?

No, nothing--nothing. At least, I have brought my cough with me, but
they would not care for _that_, would they, neighbour?

No, no, little girl; no more than they would for my crutches. Ah, dear
child, who would care for crutches?

But you leave good wishes behind you, Grandfather, do you not?

Yes, yes, my dear. And so, I know, do you. Now we must go, good
neighbours, for it is getting late.

[_The Neighbours begin to leave the room--some of them yawning as they
go, the little girl coughing badly, and the old man stumping along on
crutches._]

Yes, we must go now, we must go now.

God grant them the best of good fortune, for they are such a kindly
couple!

Yes, God grant them always good health and happiness and mutual love:
and may He see to it that never a black cat step between them, to bring
them evil luck!

And may the poor young man find work to do; for it goes hard with a man
when he cannot find work to earn his daily bread!

[_Exeunt all._

[_Enter the Man's Wife, her hair decked with wild flowers, and her whole
appearance graceful, pretty, and innocent. At the same time, her face
is expressive of deep dejection, and as she sits down to the table she
turns towards the audience, and says in a sorrowful voice:_]

I have just returned from the town, where I have been looking for, I
have been looking for--oh, I hardly know _what_ I have been looking for.
We are so poor that we have nothing in all the world. Indeed, we find it
a struggle even to live. We need money, money; yet I know not where to
get it. If I were to go out into the streets and beg I feel sure that
no one would give me anything. No, every one would refuse me. And,
moreover, I have not the courage to do it. I have tried hard to get work
for my husband, but it is not to be got. Every one to whom I apply says
that there is too little work to do, and too many people to do it. I
have even roamed the town, and searched the roadways, in the hope that
some rich lady or gentleman might have dropped a purse or jewellery;
but either no one had done so, or else some mortal, luckier than I, had
found the treasure first. Oh, I am so unhappy! Soon my husband will be
coming home--tired out with his long search for work to do; yet once
more he will find that I have nothing for him but my poor kisses! And
kisses will not feed a starving man. Oh, I am so unhappy that I could
weep for ever! To me it is nothing to have to go hungry--indeed, I
scarcely feel it; but he is different, for he has a larger frame to
feed, and requires more food. When he has had to go hungry a little
while he begins to look so white and ill, so thin and worried! He takes
to scolding me, and then gives me a kiss, and begs me not to mind what
he has said. But _I_ never mind; I love him too much for that. Oh, I
am so unhappy! He is one of the cleverest architects in all the world.
Indeed, I believe he is a veritable genius. Left, when quite an infant,
to face the world alone, he was adopted by some relations. But, alas!
his quick and independent temper led him to say things which displeased
them, and caused them to declare that he was ungrateful; with the result
that, in the end, they turned him from their doors again. Yet still he
continued his studies--maintaining himself the while by giving lessons,
and often going hungry. Yes, he came well to know what hunger meant! Yet
now, though he has completed his course of studies, and become a fully
qualified architect, and can do the most beautiful designs imaginable,
no one will accept them. Nay, some stupid people even laugh at them! To
succeed in life one needs two things--influence and a lucky star: and he
has neither. So he goes wandering about, ever looking for a chance--any
sort of a chance--to find work to do. It may even be that, like myself,
he searches the roadways for lost purses, for he is but a boy in mind
as well as in years. Of course, _some_ day we shall succeed: but the
question is, When will that be? Meanwhile life is very hard for us; for
although, when we married, we had a little money, it soon disappeared,
what with too many visits to the theatre and too much eating of bonbons.
_He_ is still sanguine of success, but I--well, sometimes I seem to lose
all hope, and give way to tears when quite alone. Even now my heart is
aching to think that here is he coming home--only to find nothing for
him but my poor kisses!

[_She rises from her chair, and goes down upon her knees._]

O Lord God, be unto us a kind and pitying Father. Thou hast so much to
give of what we need--of bread, of work, of money. Thy earth is so rich,
it brings forth so much fruit and corn in its fields--it covers its
meadows with so many flowers, it yields such weight of gold, such
countless shining gems from the depths of its dark bowels! Thy sun's
rays have so much warmth in them; in the shining of Thy stars there is
so much pensive and peaceful joy! Give us, then, but a little of that
bounty--but a little, but so much as Thou bestowest upon Thy birds: a
little bread to stay the hunger of my brave, beloved husband, a little
warmth to fend him from the cold, a little work to do, that he may raise
his handsome head once more. And, I beseech Thee, be not angry with
him that he should scold me so often, and that at other times he should
laugh and bid me dance: for he is as yet but young, and cannot always be
grave and sober.

[_She rises to her feet again._]

There! Now that I have said a prayer I feel better--I begin to hope once
more. Surely God must give _occasionally_ when He is entreated so often?
Now I will go out again and search the roadways, in the hope that some
one may have dropped a purse or some jewellery.

[_Exit._

~The Being in Grey.~~

The woman knows not that her prayer is already granted. She knows not
that this very day some noblemen have been bending eagerly over some
designs submitted by the Man, and that finally they have decided to
accept them. All this day those two noblemen have been seeking the Man
in vain. Yea, wealth has been seeking him, even as hitherto he has been
seeking wealth. And early on the morrow, at the hour when workmen are
setting forth to their toil, a carriage will draw up at the entrance to
the Man's dwelling, and the two wealthy noblemen will enter his humble
chamber--bowing low in courteous salutation as they do so, and bringing
with them the first beginnings of his fame and fortune. But, as yet,
neither the Man nor his Wife knows of this, although good fortune is
coming to the Man as surely as some day it will depart again.

[_Enter the Man and his Wife. The former has a proud, handsome head,
brilliant eyes, a high forehead, and dark eyebrows--the latter springing
from a point so low down the nose as almost to resemble a pair of small,
clearly defined wings attached to that member. His wavy black hair is
flung back clear of his brow, and there are visible, over a soft,
white turned-down collar, a well-set neck and a portion of the throat.
Although his movements are as quick and elastic as those of some young
animal, his pose is purely that of a symmetrical, well-balanced human
being._]

~The Man.~~

Once more nothing! Soon I shall have to take to lying in bed all day:
so that whoever wants to see me will have to come to _me_, not I go to
_him_. Yes, I will begin that mode of life to-morrow.

~His Wife.~~

Are you so tired, then, my darling?

~The Man.~~

Yes, tired and hungry; and though I could devour a whole ox, like one
of Homer's heroes, I suppose I shall have to put up with a piece of dry
bread! Yet a man cannot go on eating dry bread for ever, when all the
time his appetite craves to be sated--craves for something into which it
can plunge its teeth, and gorge itself, and be filled.

~His Wife.~~

I am so sorry for you, my dearest one!

~The Man.~~

As I am for you. Yet that makes me none the less ravenous. To-day I
spent a whole hour in front of a cookshop; and just as people gape
at masterpieces of art, so did I gape at the fat pies and capons and
sausages in the window. And oh, the signboard above them! Do you know,
it is possible to depict a ham on a signboard so cunningly that one
could devour it, signboard and all.

~His Wife.~~

Yes--I too could eat something.

~The Man.~~

Of course. Who could not? But do you like lobsters?

~His Wife.~~

I simply adore them!

~The Man.~~

Then what a lobster I saw there! Though only a painted one, he was
fairer even than the reality. Red, stately, and severe as a cardinal, he
looked fit for consecration. I believe I could eat _two_ such cardinals,
and a reverend father carp into the bargain.

~His Wife.~~

(_Sadly._) But you have not noticed my flowers?

The Man.

Flowers, flowers? Do you expect me to eat _them!_

~His Wife.~~

Ah, you cannot love me, to speak thus!

~The Man.~~

Forgive me, forgive me, but I am so hungry! See how my hand is
trembling. I could not even throw a stone at a dog with it.

~His Wife.~~

(_Kissing his hand._) My poor darling!

~The Man.~~

But what is this parcel on the table? It seems to send forth a most
unctuous smell. Did you put it there?

~His Wife.~~

No indeed! It must have been the neighbours.

~The Man.~~

What dear, goodhearted folks! But it is strange to think that, for all
the kind people in the world, a man may perish of hunger! Why should
that be?--Ah! Look there!

~His Wife.~~

How you frighten me! How your eyes are staring! What is it you see?
Surely it is something dreadful?

~The Man.~~

Yes. Even as I jested there uprose before me--there, in that
dark corner--the terrible figure of Starvation! Do you not see it now?
Its hands are stretched forth as in piteous appeal, like those of some
poor child which is lost in a forest and keeps crying out in a voice
of childish agony--a voice which echoes and re-echoes in the deserted
wilds--"Help me, or I die! Help me, or I die!"--and there is none to
hear! Look, my wife, look! See how those dark shadows quiver and float,
like volumes of black smoke belched forth from some deep shaft leading
down to the pit of hell! See! see! I am being drawn into them!

~His Wife.~~

Oh, I am terrified! I dare not look into that corner!--But, nay, nay;
'twas only in the street you saw all this?

~The Man.~~

Yes, it was only in the street; but soon I shall be seeing it in this
room.

~His Wife.~~

No, no! God would never permit it!

~The Man.~~

But why not? Does He not permit it to happen to _other_ people?

~His Wife.~~

Yes; but we are better than they. We are _good_ people, and have done no
wrong.

~The Man.~~

Think you so? Then remember all my cruel scoldings of you.

~His Wife.~~

But you have never _really_ been cruel to me.

~The Man.~~

Yes, I have!--yes, many and many a time! Nor is that all; for no wild
boar could fall to grinding his tusks more wickedly than I do as I
wander through the streets and gaze upon all those things whereof we
stand in such desperate need. Ah, how much money there is in the world
that we have not got! Listen to me, little wife. This afternoon I was
walking in the park--that beautiful park where the paths run straight as
pistol-shots, and the beech-trees look like kings in crowns.

~His Wife.~~

And I too was walking in the streets, with shops, shops, shops
everywhere--such beautiful shops!

~The Man.~~

And people passed me who were carrying gold-mounted canes and wearing
splendid clothes: and I could not help thinking to myself, "Ah, _I_ have
none of these things!"

~His Wife.~~

And I too was passed by rich people--by fine ladies in dainty boots
which made their feet look so elegant, and exquisite hats from under
which their eyes glanced so bewitchingly, and silken petticoats which
gave their figures such an inexpressible charm: and I could not help
thinking to myself, "Ah, _I_ have no smart hats and silken petticoats!"

~The Man.~~

One dandy had the impudence to jostle me, but I just gave him a glimpse
of my boar's tusks, and he very soon lost himself in the crowd.

~His Wife.~~

And I too was jostled by a fine lady; yet I could not bring myself even
to look at her, I felt so miserable!

~The Man.~~

Also, I saw people riding in the park--riding fiery, spirited horses.
Alas, _I_ have none such!

~His Wife.~~

One fine lady whom I met was wearing diamond earrings--earrings which I
could actually have kissed!

~The Man.~~

Red and green motor-cars, with great, glaring eyes, were gliding along
as silently as ghosts, and the people in them were laughing and jesting
and looking indolently about them. Alas, _I_ have no motor-car!

~His Wife.~~

Nor I diamonds, nor emeralds, nor clear white pearls!

~The Man.~~

Up above the ornamental water there was a restaurant, blazing with
lights like the firmament of heaven; and in it people were dining,
while men in tail-coats who might have been ministers of State, and
white-aproned women who looked like veritable winged angels, were
carrying wine and dishes about. And every one was eating and drinking,
eating and drinking. Ah, how I too could have eaten and drunk! My wife,
my wife, I am so hungry!

~His Wife.~~

My poor darling, it is having to walk about so much that makes you
hungry. But never mind. Sit down here, and I will climb on to your knee,
and you shall take paper and pencil and draw me a beautiful, beautiful
palace.

~The Man.~~

Ah, but my inspiration seems equally to be suffering from hunger; it
cannot rise above pictures of eatables, and for a long while past I have
been making my palaces look like pies filled with rich stuffing and my
churches like pease-puddings. But I see tears in your eyes! What ails
thee, little wife of mine?

~His Wife.~~

It hurts me so much to think that I can do nothing for you!

~The Man.~~

Is that it? Then am I filled with shame to think that I--I, a strong
man, talented, educated, and in the prime of life--should sit here
grumbling until I have seen my poor little wife--the good fairy of the
legends--burst into tears! When a woman weeps it is a man's shame. I am
overcome with remorse.

~His Wife.~~

But it is not _your_ fault that people do not appreciate you.

~The Man.~~

Nevertheless I blush to my ears. I feel that I deserve as sound a
whipping as ever I received when I was a boy. To think that you too
were hungry--as hungry as I am--and that I never noticed it! Oh, what a
selfish egoist am I! It was shameful of me!

~His Wife.~~

My dearest one, I was not, I am not, hungry.

~The Man.~~

Oh, it was shameful and unmanly of me! The dandy who jostled me in the
park did rightly, for he saw that it was a mere sensual pig that was
passing him by--a wild boar of sharp tusks indeed, but most gross mind.

~His Wife.~~

If you go on scolding yourself so unjustly I shall weep again.

~The Man.~~

No, no, you must not weep. When I see tears in those pretty eyes I am
seized with dread. Yes, I am afraid of those little crystal drops;
for, whenever I behold them, I feel as though it were not you, but some
stranger whom I know not, that were shedding them. No, you must not
weep. We are poor, and have nothing, I know, but we can talk of what we
shall surely have _some_ day, and I can tell you bright fairy tales, and
wrap you round with shining fancies, my little queen.

~His Wife.~~

Ah, we have no cause to be afraid. You are too strong, and too great a
genius, to be vanquished by life. The present time will pass away, and
inspiration will once more spread its influence over your splendid head.

[_The Man assumes a proud and daring attitude of challenge, and throws a
sprig of oak towards the corner where stands the Being in Grey._]

~The Man.~~

See thou, whatsoever be thy name--whether Fate, Life, or Devil! I cast
thee down my gauntlet, I challenge thee to battle! Men of faint heart
may bow before thy mysterious power, thy face of stone may inspire
them with dread, in thy unbroken silence they may discern the birth
of calamity and an impending avalanche of woe. But _I_ am daring and
strong, and I challenge thee to battle! Let us draw our swords, and
join our bucklers, and rain such blows upon each other's crests as shall
cause the very earth to shake again! Ha! Come forth and fight with me!

~His Wife.~~

(_With enthusiasm, as she leans upon the Man's shoulder._) More boldly
yet, my dearest one! More boldly yet!

~The Man.~~

To thy vile laggardness I will oppose my swift and living strength--to
thy dim mystery my open, ringing laughter! Ha! Parry thou my strokes
if thou canst! At thy dull forehead of stone I will aim the whitehot
bullets of my flashing intellect! Into thy pitiless heart of stone I
will inject the burning poison of remorse for the agony which thou didst
cause my mother at my birth! Of a surety there shall arise a sun which
shall dispel the black thunderclouds of thy cruel enmity! Yea, the
flashing of our swords shall illumine the darkness! Ha! Fend thou my
passes if thou canst!

~His Wife.~~

More boldly yet, my dearest one! More boldly yet! Thy trusty
armour-bearer stands beside thee, my valiant knight!

~The Man.~~

As I advance thou shalt hear me singing such songs as shall echo the
wide world through! What though I fall beneath a blow of thine, I will
yet utter no cry, but cast about how I may raise myself and renew the
combat! In my armour there are weak spots--that I know full well; but
though I be covered with wounds, though I be red with my own blood,
I will yet summon my last remaining strength to cry, "Thou hast not
vanquished me yet, thou cruel enemy of man!"

~His Wife.~~

More boldly yet, my trusty knight! More boldly yet! I will bathe thy
wounds with my tears, and staunch thy red blood with my kisses!

~The Man.~~

What though I die upon the field of battle, it will be as brave men die;
making thy triumph but an empty one with my never-failing challenge,
"Thou hast not vanquished me yet, nor wilt thou ever!" In very truth it
will be I who will have gained the victory, thou bitter foe of mine: for
until my last faint breath shall have been drawn I shall have refused to
own thy power!

~His Wife.~~

More boldly yet, my knight I More boldly yet! _I_ will die with thee!

~The Man.~~

Ha! Come forth to battle! Let us flash our swords, and join our
bucklers, and rain such blows upon each other's crests as shall cause
the very earth to shake again! Ha! Come forth, come forth!

[_For a few seconds the Man and his Wife retain their respective
attitudes. Then they turn to one another and em-brace._]

~The Man.~~

Thus will we deal with life, my little helpmeet. Will we not, eh? What
though it blink at us like an owl that is blinded by the sun, we will
yet force it to smile.

~His Wife.~~

Yes, and to dance to our singing, too. Together we will do it.

~The Man.~~

Yes, together, my paragon among wives, my trusty comrade, my brave
little armour-bearer. So long as I have _thee_ by my side, nothing can
make me fear. A fig for poverty! We may be poor to-day, but we shall be
rich to-morrow.

~His Wife.~~

And what does hunger matter? To-day we may be without a crust, but
to-morrow we shall be feasting.

~The Man.~~

Think you so? Well, 'tis very likely. But I shall require a great deal
of satisfying. What think you of this for our daily _menu?_ First meal
in the morning, tea, coffee, or chocolate, whichever we prefer; then
a breakfast of three courses; then luncheon; then dinner; then supper;
then----

~His Wife.~~

Yes; and always as much fruit as possible. I adore fruit!

~The Man.~~

Very well. I will go out and buy it myself--buy it in the market-place,
where it is cheapest and most fresh. Besides, we shall be having our own
fruit garden before long.

~His Wife.~~

But we have no land yet?

~The Man.~~

No, but I shall soon be buying some. I have always wished to possess an
estate, not only as a pleasure-ground, but also as a place where I may
build a house from my own designs. The rascally world shall see what an
architect I am!

~His Wife.~~

I should like the house to be in Italy, close to the sea: a villa of
white marble, set in the midst of a grove of lime-trees and cypresses,
with white marble steps leading down to the blue waters.

~The Man.~~

Yes, I see your idea. It would be capital. Yet _my_ plan, rather, is
to build a castle on a Norwegian mountain, with a fjord below, and the
castle parched on a peak above. Have we no paper? Well, never mind. I
can show you on the wall what I mean. This is the fjord. Do you see?

~His Wife.~~

Yes. How beautiful!

~The Man.~~

And here are the deep, sparkling waters, reflecting the tender green
of the grass above. Here, too, is a red, black, and cinnamon-coloured
cliff. And there, in that gap (just where I have made that smudge), is a
patch of blue sky, gleaming through a fleecy white cloud.

~His Wife.~~

Nay, it is not a cloud. Rather, it is a white boat, with its reflection
in the water, like two white swans joined breast to breast.

~The Man.~~

And see, over all there rises a mountain, with sides of brilliant green,
except just at the top, where it is more misty and rugged. Here, too,
are sharp spurs, and dark shadows of clefts, and wisps of cloud.

~His Wife.~~

Oh, it looks like a ruined castle!

~The Man.~~

And _here_--on that "ruined castle," as you call it (just where I have
put that mark in the centre)--I will build me a stately mansion.

~His Wife.~~

But it will be so cold up there--so windy?

~The Man.~~

Nay, I shall give the mansion stout walls and huge windows of
plate-glass; and then at night, when the winter storms are raging and
the fjord is tossing below, we shall draw the curtains over the windows,
and heap up a roaring fire (I shall make enormous fireplaces, you
know--large enough to hold whole trunks of trees, whole beams of pine).

~His Wife.~~

Ah! it will be warm enough _then_.

~The Man.~~

Yes, indeed; and the whole interior will be quiet and restful, for I
mean to have soft carpets everywhere, and the walls lined with thousands
and thousands of books, and everything looking snug and cheerful. And
you and I will sit before the fire on a white bearskin; and when you say
to me, "Shall we go and look at the storm?" I shall answer, "Yes," and
we shall run to the largest of the great windows, and draw aside the
curtains: and then, my God, what a night it will look like.

~His Wife.~~

Snowflakes whirling by!

~The Man.~~

Yes; like little white horses galloping, or myriads of tiny, frightened
souls, pale with fear and seeking shelter in the night. And there will
be such a howling and a roaring!

~His Wife.~~

And I shall say that I am cold, and give a shiver.

~The Man.~~

And then we shall scamper back to the fire, and I shall call aloud, "Ho,
there! Bring me the ancestral goblet--the one of pure gold from which
Vikings have drunk--and fill it with aureate wine, and let us drain
the soul-warming draught to the dregs!" Meanwhile we shall have had a
chamois roasting on the spit, and again I shall call aloud, "Ho, there!
Bring hither the venison, that we may eat it!" Yes, and in about two
seconds I shall be eating _you_, little wife, for I am as hungry as the
devil.

~His Wife.~~

Well, suppose they have brought the roast chamois? Go on. What next?

~The Man.~~

What next? Well, once I have begun to eat it, there will soon be little
of it left--and therefore nothing more to tell. But what are you doing
to my head, little playmate?

~His Wife.~~

I am the Goddess of Fame. I have woven you a chaplet of the oak-leaves
which the neighbours brought, and am crowning you with it. Thus shall
fame--yes, real, resounding fame-some day be yours.

[_She crowns him with the chaplet._]

~The Man.~~

Yes, fame, fame, resplendent fame! Look here on the wall as I draw. This
is myself advancing. Do you see? But who is that with me?

~His Wife.~~

I!

~The Man.~~

Yes. And see how people are bowing down to us, and whispering about us,
and pointing us out with their fingers. Here is a city father shedding
tears of joy as he exclaims, "Happy is our town to have been the
birthplace of such children!" Here, too, a certain young man turns pale
with emotion as he gazes upon his handiwork; for fortune has smiled upon
him at last, and he has built a City Hall that is the pride of all the
land.

~His Wife.~~

Yes, even as you are _my_ pride. And even as I have placed this wreath
of oak-leaves upon your head, so will the day come when you are accorded
one of laurels.

~The Man.~~

But look again. Here are other magnates of my native town advancing to
pay me their respects. They make low bows--yes, to the very ground--and
say, "Our town rejoices at having been accorded the honour of----"

~His Wife.~~

Oh!

~The Man.~~

What is it?

~His Wife.~~

I have found a bottle of milk I

~The Man.~~

Surely not?

~His Wife.~~

And bread!--beautiful spiced bread!--and a cigar!

~The Man.~~

Impossible! You must be joking. Or you must have mistaken some of the
damp from these accursed walls for milk.

~His Wife.~~

No, no. Indeed I have not.

~The Man.~~

And a cigar! Cigars do not grow on windowsills. They cost money, and
have to be bought in shops. What you see is only a piece of black twig,
or something of the kind.

~His Wife.~~

But look for yourself. I am sure it must be the neighbours who have left
these things for us.

~The Man.~~

The neighbours? Well, of a truth they may have been the instruments, but
the work has been the work of God himself. And even if it were devils
who have brought the things here, it should not prevent you from coming
and sitting on my knee, little wife.

[_The Man's Wife seats herself upon his knee, and they proceed to eat;
she breaking off little bits of bread, and placing them between his
lips, while he feeds her with milk out of the bottle._]

~The Man.~~

I believe it is cream, it looks so good.

~His Wife.~~

No, it is milk. You must bite your bread more carefully, or you will
choke.

~The Man.~~

No, no, I shall not. Let me have some more of the crust--of that nice
brown crust.

~His Wife.~~

But I am _sure_ you will choke before you have finished.

~The Man.~~

No, no. See how easily I swallow.

~His Wife.~~

You are making the milk run down my neck! How dreadfully it tickles!

~The Man.~~

Then let me lick it up. Not a drop of it ought to be wasted.

~His Wife.~~

How thrifty you are growing!

~The Man.~~

Be ready. Now, then! Quick!--Ah, everything good comes to an end too
soon. I believe that this bottle must have got a false bottom to it, to
make it look deeper. What rascally fellows those bottlemakers are!

[_The Man lights the cigar, and sinks back in the attitude of a
blissfully tired man, while his wife ties her hair with the new riband,
and goes to look at herself in the darkness of the window-panes._]

~The Man.~~

This cigar must have cost a fortune, it is so mellow and strong. In
future I mean always to smoke this brand of cigars.

~His Wife.~~

But do you not see how nice I look?

~The Man.~~

Yes, I see. I see the new riband, and I see, too, that you wish me to
kiss your pretty little neck.

~His Wife.~~

But I will not allow it, sir. You are getting much too free. Puff away
at your cigar if you wish, but my neck----

~The Man.~~

Eh what? Is it not mine too? Devil take me if I do not assert my
proprietorship!

[_She pretends to dart away, but he pursues and kisses her._]

~The Man.~~

There! I have asserted my rights. And now, little wifie, you must dance.
Imagine this to be a splendid, a supernaturally beautiful palace.

~His Wife.~~

Very well. I have imagined it.

~The Man.~~

And that you are the queen of the ball.

~His Wife.~~

I am ready.

~The Man.~~

And that counts, marquises, and city magnates keep requesting the honour
of your hand, but you persistently refuse them, and choose, instead, a
man like--like--oh, a man in a beautiful gala dress, a real live prince.
What did you say?

~His Wife.~~

That I do not like princes.

~The Man.~~

Good gracious! Whom _do_ you like, then?

~His Wife.~~

I like architects of genius.

~The Man.~~

Very well, then. Imagine such a man to have asked you to dance with him
(for I suppose you would not care to have the empty air for a partner,
would you?).

~His Wife.~~

I have imagined him.

~The Man.~~

Good! Imagine, too, A marvellous orchestra, with a Turkish drum beating
pom, pom, pom.

[_He begins to thump the table with his fist_]

~His Wife.~~

But, my dearest one, it is only in a _circus_ that they beat a drum like
that, to attract the people--not in a palace.

~The Man.~~

What a fool I am! Very well, then. Never mind that part. Let us begin
again. Imagine a fiddle pouring out its soul in melody, and a flute
tootling tenderly, and a double-bass droning like a beetle. Thus:--

[_The Man hums a tune as he sits crowned with his chaplet of oak-leaves.
The tune is the same as is played during Act III, on the occasion of
the grand, ball given by the Man. His wife dances to his humming,
looking comely and graceful as she does so._]

~The Man.~~

Ah, my little pet goat!

~His Wife.~~

Nay, I am' the queen of the ball.

[_The tune and the dance grow merrier and merrier, until the Man rises
to his feet, and dancing lightly where he stands, takes his wife round
the waist, and dances with her--his chaplet slipping down to one side
as he does so. Meanwhile the Being in Grey looks on imperturbably--the
candle in his hand continuing to burn steadily with a clear light._]


CURTAIN




ACT III--THE BALL GIVEN BY THE MAN

[_A grand ball is in progress in the salon of the mansion which the Man
has built for himself. The scene is a large, square, lofty room with
smooth, white walls and ceiling and a polished floor. Yet a certain
discrepancy in the proportions of some of the minor features of the
apartment conveys to the beholder a sort of vague, unsatisfactory
impression, as though something were wanting, or discordant, or
superfluous, or bizarre--one cannot exactly tell which. For instance,
the doors are small as compared with the windows, and constitute, with
the latter, the only features breaking the monotony of the apartment's
outline. The windows, too, are of immense size. Reaching almost to
the ceiling, they are placed only in the rear wall, and in close
juxtaposition to one another, while their panes show black with the
darkness of the outer night, and neither spot nor speck breaks the wall
spaces between them. Eloquent testimony to the wealth of the Man is
afforded by the superabundance of gilding on the cornices, chairs, and
picture-frames; yet the pictures are but few in number, and confined
to the side walls, of which they form the sole adornment. Light is
furnished by hoop-shaped lustres and a few scattered electric globes.
Nevertheless, though the ceiling is in brilliant relief, the rest of the
room is in slight shadow--a circumstance which imparts a kind of greyish
tinge to the walls. In general, the scene has about it an air of pallor
and chill._

[_The ball is in full swing--the music being furnished by an orchestra
of three players, each of whom bears a certain resemblance to his
instrument. The fiddler has a long, thin neck and a small head
ornamented on both sides with little tufts of hair. His body is
grotesquely curved in outline, and he has a handkerchief neatly
folded on his shoulder, to form a pad for his fiddle. The flute player
resembles his flute in that he is exceedingly tall and thin, with long,
lean face and taper legs; while the man with the double-bass is short,
with broad, rounded shoulders, a fat body, and baggy trousers. All three
executants play with an energy which is manifested even in their faces
as they grind out the tune and sway their heads and bodies to and fro to
the rhythm. The tune in question (which is never once changed throughout
the ball) consists of a short, polka-like air, made up of two separate
parts, and charged with a sort of vapid, jaunty, staccato lilt. All
the instruments are slightly out of tune with one another, and this
sometimes causes the discrepancies in pitch and tempo to give rise to
an extraordinary series of dissonances and gaps in the melody. The
following is the tune:--_

[Illustration: 0080]

_To these strains a number of young men and girls are dancing a legato
measure in a graceful, refined manner. To the first phrase of the tune
they advance and meet; to the second phrase they retire; to the third
and fourth they advance and retire as before--all with a rather stately,
old-fashioned demeanour._

[_Along the walls are seated a number of chaperons and other guests, in
a variety of studiedly affected attitudes. Their movements are stiff
and angular, and their remarks stilted and spasmodic. Never is the
correctness of their tone lowered by, for instance, light laughter or
whispering. Gazing straight in front of them, with their hands primly
folded on their laps and their wrists stuck out so sharply as to convey
the impression that those members have been fractured, these onlookers
mouth their sentences in the sententious fashion of copybooks, and
express, in their whole bearing, a sort of disdainful weariness. Indeed,
so absolutely monotonous and uniform in expression are their fades
that the latter would seem to have been turned out of one and the same
mould--a mould which has stamped them with a stereotyped air of conceit
and arrogance, coupled with a certain dull respect for the Man's wealth.
The dancers are dressed in white, the musicians in black, and the
remaining guests in white, black, or yellow. In the right-hand front
corner of the stage (a corner in deeper shadow than the rest of the
scene') stands the motionless figure of the Being in Grey. The candle in
his hand is now burnt away for two-thirds of its length, yet its flame
is still strong and yellow, and continues to throw lurid gleams over the
statuesque face and chin of the Being._]

~Dialogue of the Guests.~~

I feel it my bounden duty to remark that to be numbered among the guests
at any ball given by the Man is indeed an honour!

Yes; and to that you might have added that only a very limited circle of
persons are permitted to attain to that honour. My husband, my sons, my
daughters, and myself are profoundly sensible of the privilege which has
been accorded us.

I am truly sorry for those who have not had the good fortune to receive
an invitation to the ball. Never this night, I fear, will they be able
to close their eyes in sleep, by reason of the pangs of envy. Yet on the
morrow they will not hesitate to speak in disparaging terms of the fêtes
which the Man periodically gives.

Ah, but never have they looked upon such brilliancy as we see here
to-night!

No, never! Nor, you might have added, upon such luxury and wealth!

Nor upon such enchanting, such soul-emancipating gaiety! If this be
not gaiety, then I know not what gaiety is. But let that pass. 'Tis ill
quarrelling with persons who writhe in the pangs of envy. Yet I will
venture to foretell that those same persons will presumptuously assert
that these were not gilded chairs upon which we are now sitting--not
gilded chairs!

No; mere deteriorated articles, purchased, for a trifling sum, from some
secondhand dealer!

They will say, too, that those beautiful electric globes were tallow
candles of the commonest quality!

Yes--mere farthing dips!

Or trashy oil lamps! Oh, tongues of envy!

Peradventure they will have the effrontery to deny that the mansion has
gilded cornices?

Or that to the pictures on the walls there are the massive gilded frames
which we see before us? For my part, I seem to hear the veritable chink
of gold in this palace.

Well, at all events we behold its glitter: and that, in my opinion, is
as good.

Seldom has it fallen to my lot to enjoy such ravishing strains as those
which always greet our ears at balls given by the Man. They constitute
the veritable music of the spheres, and waft the soul from earth to
higher regions.

Yes, in truth do they! Yet we have some reason to expect that the music
should be of the finest quality, seeing that the Man is in a position to
pay the immense fees demanded by the musicians. You must recollect that
this is the most distinguished orchestra of the day, and plays at all
the most _recherché_ functions.

Ah, one could listen to such strains for ever! They simply _enchant_
one's sense of hearing! I may inform you that, for days and nights after
one of these balls given by the Man, my sons and daughters never cease
to hum the tunes which they have heard there.

At times I seem to hear such divine music when I am walking in the
streets. I gaze around me, but neither instrument nor player is to be
seen.

And _I_ hear it in my dreams.

What appears to me so especially excellent about these musicians is that
they play with such _abandon_. Though aware of the immense fees which
they are entitled to demand for their services, they are yet good enough
to refrain from giving nothing in return. That seems to me particularly
right and proper.

Yes. 'Tis as though the musicians completely-identified themselves
with their instruments, so great is the verve with which they surrender
themselves to their playing.

Or, rather, as though their instruments identified themselves with them.

How rich it all is!

Flow sumptuous!

How brilliant!

How luxurious!

[_And so on, for a considerable time, like a pack of dogs barking one
against the other._]

I would have you to know that, in addition to this _salon_, the mansion
contains no fewer than fifteen magnificent apartments. I have seen them
all. The dining-room is fitted with a fireplace which can accommodate
whole trunks of trees. The drawing-room, too, and boudoir are simply
_gorgeous_, while the state bedroom is not only an apartment of the most
gigantic dimensions, but is actually furnished with bedsteads to which
baldaquins are attached!

Indeed? You surprise me! Baldaquins?

Yes, I said _baldaquins_. Pray permit me to continue what I was saying.
The son of the house lives in a beautiful, bright nursery, lined
throughout with yellow wood and gilding, so that the sun seems for ever
to be shining there. And the little fellow is so charming! He has curls
like the rays of the sun himself.

Yes, indeed! When one looks upon him one involuntarily exclaims, "The
sun has just come out."

And when one gazes into his eyes one involuntarily thinks, "Ah! Now are
the chill autumn and winter passed, for there is blue sky to be seen."

The Man loves the boy to distraction. He has just bought him a pony--a
beautiful, pure white pony--to ride on. Now, _my_ children----

Well, as we were saying. Have I yet told you of the bathroom?

No, you have not.

It is a truly marvellous apartment.

Ah! Is it indeed?

Yes; with hot water always laid on. Then there is the Man's study,
replete with books--endless books. He is said to be immensely
clever--and of a truth you could tell that from the number of the books
alone.

I have seen the gardens. Have _you?_

Indeed? No, I have not.

And I am not ashamed to confess that they simply astounded me. In them
I saw the most marvellous lawns--all of an emerald green, and mown with
surprising neatness, with little paths intersecting them, lined with the
finest of red sand. And the flowers, too! And the palm-trees!

_Palm-trees?_

Yes, I said _palm-trees_. Every shrub is pruned into a shape of some
kind, such as a pyramid or a column of green foliage. Then there is a
fountain with huge globes of glass, and, in the centre of the main lawn,
a number of plaster gnomes and sirens.

How splendid!

How brilliant!

How luxurious!

[_And so on, as before._]

The Man also did me the honour to show me his coach-houses and stables,
until I found myself wholly unable to repress the admiration evoked in
me by the spectacle of the horses and carriages which they contained.
His motor-car, too, made a great impression upon me.

And, to think of it, he has no fewer than _seventeen_ attendants for his
person alone, in addition to the general staff of cooks, kitchen-maids,
housemaids, gardeners, and so forth!

And grooms, surely?

Yes, and grooms.

Of course, it is only right and proper that the Man and his Wife should
have everything done for them, seeing that they are personages of such
high degree.

Yes; and for the same reason it is all the more an honour for us to be
included among the number of their guests.

But do you not find the music just a trifle--well, _monotonous?_

No, I do not, and I am surprised that _you_ should do so. Surely you
know who the musicians are?

Yes; I was but jesting. I could listen to such strains for ever. There
is something in them which especially appeals to me.

And to me also.

It is delightful to be able to surrender oneself to their influence, and
to become absorbed in dreams of ecstatic bliss.

It is not too much to say that they waft one's soul to the very
empyrean.

How delightful it all is!

How splendid!

How luxurious!

[_And so on, as before._]

But I see a movement at that door. Probably the Man and his Wife are
making their entry into the _salon_.

See how the musicians are redoubling their efforts!

There they come! There they come!

Yes, there they come! There they come!

[_The Man and his Wife appear at a low door on the right, accompanied by
the Man's Friends and Enemies. They cross the salon obliquely to a door
on the left, walking in solemn procession, and causing the dancers to
divide and leave a clear space for them. The musicians play more loudly,
and more extravagantly out of tune, than ever._

[_The Man looks much older than he did in Act II, and a sprinkling of
grey is noticeable in his long hair and beard. Yet his face is still
handsome and vigorous. He walks with a sort of calm dignity and
aloofness, and gazes straight in front of him, as though he were not
aware of the presence of the surrounding company. His Wife, too, looks
older, but still beautiful, as she leans upon his arm. Like her husband,
she seems to see none of the surrounding company, but gazes in front of
her with a strange, half-apprehensive expression. They are both of them
magnificently dressed._

[_Behind the Man and his Wife come the Man's Friends. The latter
are uniformly like one another, with aristocratic faces, high, open
foreheads, and candid eyes. They move with dignity--expanding their
chests, setting down their feet with firmness and assurance, and gazing
from side to side with faintly condescending smiles. They wear white
buttonholes._

[_Following them at a respectful distance come the Man's Enemies. These
also bear a strong general resemblance to one another--their faces
being vicious and cunning, their brows low and beetling, and their
hands slender and apelike. They move as though ill at ease--jostling
one another, hunching their shoulders, hiding behind one another, and
throwing sharp, mean, envious glances about them. They wear yellow
buttonholes._

[_In this manner the procession moves slowly across the salon, without
a word being spoken by any one of its members. The sound of their
footsteps, combined with the strains of the musicians and the
acclamations of the guests, gives rise to a sort of confused, discordant
din._

~Acclamations of the Guests.~~

There they are! There they are! What an honour for us!

How handsome he is!

What a manly face!

Look, look!

Yet he does not deign us even a glance!

No; although we are his guests!

He has not so much as seen us!

No matter. This is a great honour for us. And there is his Wife! Look,
look!

How lovely she is!

But how proud!

Look at her diamonds, her diamonds!

Her diamonds, her diamonds!

And her pearls, her pearls!

And her rubies, her rubies!

How splendid! We are indeed honoured!

Yes, are we not? What an honour, what an honour!

[_And so on, and so on._]

And there come the Man's Friends!

Look, look!

What aristocratic faces!

And what a haughty bearing!

Yes, for they reflect his glory.

And how attached to him they are!

And what true friends to him!

What an honour to be one of their number! They look at everything as
though it were theirs.

Yes; they are at home here.

What an honour for us! What an honour! [_And so on, and so on._]

And there come the Man's Enemies! Look, look! The Man's Enemies!

They crouch like whipped dogs!

Yes, for the Man has tamed them.

Yes, he has muzzled them.

See how they droop their tails between their legs!

And how they slink along!

And how they jostle one another!

Booh! Booh!

[_General laughter._]

What vulgar faces!

And what greedy looks!

What a cowardly bearing!

What an envious air!

They are afraid to look at us.

Yes. They know that we have a better right than they to be here.

They need frightening a little more.

The Man will thank us for doing it.

Booh! Booh!

[_The Guests receive the Man's Enemies with renewed jeers and laughter,
while the Enemies crowd nervously upon one another, and throw sharp
glances to right and left._]

There! They are going now! They are going now!

Truly an honour of the greatest kind has been done us!

Yes, they are going now!

Booh! Booh!

They have gone! They have gone!

[_The procession disappears through a doorway to the left, and the din
dies down a little. The music plays less loudly than before, and the
dancers spread themselves over the floor again._]

Where have they gone to?

To the great dining-room, I suppose, where supper is to be served.

Then we may take it that we too will be invited presently?

Yes. Has not a lackey come to summon us?

I think it is high time we were sent for. If supper be served much later
than this, we shall all of us sleep badly.

Yes, I assure you I _always_ sup early.

A late supper lies so heavily on one's stomach!

The music still goes on.

Yes, and so do the dancers. Yet I am surprised that they have not tired
of it.

How rich it is!

How sumptuous!

[_And so on, as before._]

Did you see how many covers were laid for supper?

No. I had barely time to begin counting them before the butler entered
the room and I had to depart.

Surely we have not been forgotten?

My good madam, please remember that (in his own eyes, at least) the
Man is a very great personage, and that we are personages of _small_
account.

No matter. My husband often asserts that it is _we_ who do _the Man_
honour by accepting his invitations--not _the Man_ who does _us_ honour
by according them. We are rich ourselves, for that matter.

And if one should also take into account the reputation of his wife----!

Has any one seen a footman, sent to summon us to supper? Perhaps he is
looking for us in one of the other rooms?

How rich the Man must be!

Yet wealth may be acquired without dipping one's hands into other
people's pockets.

Hush! Only the Man's Enemies say that.

Indeed? And do they not comprise among their number men of the highest
honour? My husband is one of them.

How late it is getting!

I think there must have been some misunderstanding here. I can scarcely
suppose that we have _purposely_ been forgotten.

Well, if you cannot suppose that, I must say that your knowledge of life
and men is grossly deficient.

I am surprised. We ourselves are rich, but----

Hark! I think I heard some one call us.

'Twas only your fancy. _No one_ has called us.

I feel it my bounden duty to remark that I cannot conceive how we ever
came to permit ourselves to patronize a house which possesses such
a dubious reputation. Of a surety we ought to pick and choose our
acquaintances more carefully.

[_Enter a footman, who cries aloud: "The Man and his Wife request the
honour of their guests' company at supper." Upon this the Guests resume
their conversation with a sigh of relief._]

What a splendid livery!

So the Man _has_ invited us, after all!

I knew it was only a misunderstanding.

The Man is _so_ goodhearted! In all probability he and his party
themselves have not yet sat down to supper.

I _told_ you a lackey would be sent to summon us.

What a magnificent livery he wore!

They say the supper is equally magnificent.

Oh, nothing is ever badly done in the Man's house.

What music! What an honour to be one of the guests at a ball given by
the Man!

How persons must envy us who have not been accorded that honour!

How rich it all is!

How sumptuous!

[_Repeating these ejaculations over and over again, the Guests begin to
depart. Only one couple of dancers continue dancing; the rest follow
the Guests in silence. For a little while the last couple continue their
diversion; then they hasten to overtake their companions. Nevertheless
the musicians play with unabated vigour._

[_Presently a footman enters, and extinguishes all the lights save the
furthest lustre. For a few moments afterwards the forms of the musicians
are still distinguishable through the gloom as they sway themselves and
their instruments to the music; but eventually nothing remains visible
save the tall figure of the Being in Grey. The flame of the candle in
his hand is now flickering heavily, yet its light remains strong and
yellow, and throws the strong face and chin of the Being into sharp
relief. Presently, without raising his head, he makes a slight turn
towards the audience. Then, lit up by the glare of the candle's rays,
he crosses the salon with slow and soundless footsteps, and disappears
through the doorway by which the Guests and the dancers have made their
exit._]


CURTAIN




ACT IV--RUIN AND BEREAVEMENT

[_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._]


CURTAIN




ACT V--THE DEATH OF THE MAN

[_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._]


CURTAIN












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