Chapter 9

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

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

DEBTOR. Hear me now, Shalnassar!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DEBTOR. No, really.

SHALNASS. But?

DEBTOR. But for another loan.

SHALNASS (furious). What do You want?

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

(With growing agitation.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[The old slave-woman mounts the stairs.]

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

GANEM. How thou shinest From bathing.

GUeLISTANE. It was flowing, glowing silver Of moonlight.

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

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

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

GUeLISTANE.

I have told thee.

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

GUeLISTANE. He asked me--

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

[She whispers.]

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

GUeLISTANE. Well, What dost thou base on this?

GANEM. The greatest hope.

[He whispers.]

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

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

GUeLISTANE. For what reward?

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

GUeLISTANE. Who'll believe it?...

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

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

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

GUeLISTANE. Who is't?

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

GUeLISTANE. And her name?

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

_From the Painting by Walter Leistikow_

GUeLISTANE. And who gives her the poison?

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

GUeLISTANE. What? He a pastry-maker?

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

GUeLISTANE. So each will have his part to play.

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

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

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

GUeLISTANE. E'en so, and thou?

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

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

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

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

SLAVE. Was Guelistane with thee?

GANEM. [Shrugs his shoulders.]

SLAVE. But thou wast speaking.

GANEM. Aye, with my hound.

SLAVE. Then she is doubtless here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

GUeLISTANE. This is too much.

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

GUeLISTANE. O see, what wondrous vases!

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

GUeLISTANE. How thank thee?

[SHALNASSAR does not understand.]

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

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

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

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

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

GUeLISTANE. Thou shalt have kisses.

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

SHALNASS. Say, do young lovers Give better gifts?

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

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

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

GUeLISTANE. What maiden meanest thou. Beloved?

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

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

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

SLAVE. She also speaks of Ganem.

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

SLAVE. I thought so.

SHALNASS. What!

SLAVE. But all deformed with fear.

GUeLISTANE. Some business?

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

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

GUeLISTANE. Forbear!

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

GUeLISTANE. A strange idea.

SHALNASS. Come, for my sake.

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

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

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

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

[He walks up and down; exit slave.]

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

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

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

[He motions the slave out.]

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

SHALNASS. Yes. And has thy husband--

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

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

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

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

[Tries to draw her away.]

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

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

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

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

SOBEIDE (involuntarily). Call him hither.

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

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

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

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

[She sits down on the bench.]

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

[She looks up.]

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

[With forced liveliness.]

Ganem will come, and then all will be well!

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

How all this is perfumed, and how it sparkles!

[With alarmed astonishment.]

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

[She rouses her memory feverishly.]

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

[She tries to calm herself.]

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

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

Come, leave me not alone!

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

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

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

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

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

(Shuddering.)

I could not laugh at it.

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

SOBEIDE (with innocent friendliness). Why, Ganem.

GUeLISTANE. Oh, what business hast thou here?

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

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

[They regard each other attentively.]

SOBEIDE. It is long since We saw each other.

GUeLISTANE. What com'st thou here To do?

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

(Faltering.)

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

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

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

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

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

(To SOBEIDE.)

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

(To the slave.)

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

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

SOBEIDE Alas, why prickst thou me?

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

(To SOBEIDE.)

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

[She goes up the stairs with the slave.]

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

(In feverish haste.)

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

(With increasing agitation.)

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

[GANEM comes up the stairs.]

SOBEIDE (cries out).

Ganem!

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

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

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

GANEM (stands motionless before her.) Thou!

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

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

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

GANEM. What wouldst thou?

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

GANEM. Why this weeping?

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

[GANEM kisses her.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

GANEM. Why ask that now?

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

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

[He tries to draw her to him.]

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

(With the pitiable expression of one forsaken.)

And now I'm here with thee!

GANEM (inattentively, listening intently up stage).

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

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

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

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

[Weird music and voices are heard outside.]

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

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

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

[SOBEIDE is silent, looking at GANEM.]

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

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

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

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

[The slaves form in order again.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[He motions the old man out.]

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

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

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

GANEM (wildly). Go not with him!

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

GANEM (beseechingly). Go not with him!

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

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

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

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

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

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

[She casts herself on the floor.]

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

(She lies groaning.)

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

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

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

(He steps close to her, mockingly sympathetic.)

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

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

(Stands up.)

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

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

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

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

[GANEM goes up stage to fetch the slave.]

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

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

OLD SLAVE (nods). The rich one.

GANEM. Aye, thou shalt Escort her.

OLD SLAVE. What?

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

(OLD SLAVE nods.)

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

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

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

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