Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE MARRIAGE OF SOBEIDE, by HUGO VON HOFMANNSTHAL


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE MARRIAGE OF SOBEIDE, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: A wealthy merchant
Last Line: [they lift up the body to carry it in.]
Subject(s): Man-woman Relationships; Male-female Relations


DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

A WEALTHY MERCHANT
SOBEIDE, his young wife
BACHTJAR, the Jeweler, SOBEIDE'S father
SOBEIDE'S MOTHER
SHALNASSAR, the Carpet-dealer
GANEM, his son
GULISTANE, a ship-captain's widow
An Armenian Slave
An old Camel-driver
A Gardener
His wife
BAHRAM, Servant of the MERCHANT
A Debtor of SHALNASSAR

An old city in the Kingdom of Persia

The time is the evening and the night after the wedding-feast of the wealthy
merchant

SCENE I

Sleeping chamber in the house of the wealthy MERCHANT. To the rear an
alcove with dark curtains. To the left a door, to the right a small door
leading into the garden, and a window. Candles.

Enter the MERCHANT and his old Servant, BAHRAM.

MERCHANT. Speak, Bahram, gav'st thou heed unto my bride?
SERVANT. Heed, in what sense?
MERCHANT. She is not cheerful, Bahram.
SERVANT. She is a serious girl. And 'tis a moment
That sobers e'en the flightiest, remember.
MERCHANT. Not she alone: the more I bade them kindle
Lights upon lights, the heavier hung a cloud
About this wedding-feast. They smiled like masks,
And I could catch the dark or pitying glances
They flung to one another; and her father
Would oft subside into a dark reflection,
From which he roused himself with laughter forced,
Unnatural.
SERVANT. My Lord, our common clay
Endureth none too well the quiet splendor
Of hours like these. We are but little used
To aught but dragging through our daily round
Of littleness. And on such high occasions
We feel the quiet opening of a portal
From which an unfamiliar, icy breath
Our spirit chills, and warns us of the grave.
As in a glass we then behold our own
Forgotten likeness come into our vision,
And easier 'twere to weep than to be merry.
MERCHANT. She tasted not a morsel that thou placed Before her.
SERVANT. Lord, her modest maidenhood
Was like a noose about her throat; but yet
She ate some of the fruit.
MERCHANT. Yes, one small seed,
I noticed that, 'twas a pomegranate seed.
SERVANT. Then too she suddenly bethought herself
That wine, a blood-red flame in sparkling crystal,
Before her stood, and raised the splendid goblet
And drank as with a sudden firm resolve
The half of it, so that the color flooded
Her cheeks, and deep she sighed as with relief.
MERCHANT. Methinks that was no happy resolution.
So acts the man who would deceive himself,
And veils his glance, because the road affrights him.
SERVANT. Vain torments these: this is but women's way.
MERCHANT. (looks about the room, smiles).
A mirror, too, I see thou hast provided.
SERVANT. Thine own command, the mirror is thy mother's,
Brought hither from her chamber with the rest.
And thou thyself didst bid me, just this one ...
MERCHANT. What, did I so? It was a moment, then,
When I was shrewder than I am just now.
Yes, yes, a youthful bride must have a mirror.
SERVANT. Now I will go to fetch your mother's goblet
And bring the cooling evening drink.
MERCHANT. Ah yes,
Go, my good Bahram, fetch the evening drink.
[Exit BAHRAM.]
Thou mirror of my mother, dwells no glimmer
In thee of her sweet pallid smile, to rise
As from the dewy mirror of a well-spring?
Her smile, the faintest, loveliest I have known,
Was like the flutter of a tiny birdling,
That sleeps its last upon the hollowed hand.
[Stands before the mirror.]
No, naught but glass. Too long it empty stood.
Only a face that does not smile — my own.
My Self, beheld with my own eyes, so vacant
As if one glass but mirrored forth another,
Unconscious. — Oh for higher vision yet,
For but one moment infinitely brief,
To see how stands upon her spirit's mirror
My image! Is't an old man she beholds?
Am I as young as oft I deem myself,
When in the silent night I lie and listen
To hear my blood surge through its winding course?
Is it not being young, to have so little
Of rigidness or hardness in my nature?
I feel as if my spirit, nursed and reared
On nourishment so dreamlike, bloodless, thin,
Were youthful still. How else should visit me
This faltering feeling, just as in my boyhood,
This strange uneasiness of happiness,
As if 'twould slip each moment from my hands
And fade like shadows? Can the old feel this?
No, old men take the world for something hard
And dreamless; what their fingers grasp and hold,
They hold. While I am even now a-quiver
With all this moment brings; no youthful monarch
Were more intoxicated, when the breezes
Should waft to him that cryptic word "possession." [He nears the
window.]
Ah, lovely stars, are ye out there as ever?
From out of this unstable mortal body
To look upon your courses in your whirling
Eternal orbits — that has been the food
That bore with ease my years, until I thought
I scarcely felt my feet upon the earth.
And have I really withered, while my eyes
lung to you golden suns, that do not wither?
And have I learned of all the quiet plants,
And marked their parts and understood their lives,
And how they differ when upon the mountains,
Or when by running streams we find them growing, —
Almost a new creation, yet at bottom
A single species; and with confidence
Could say, this one does well, its food is pure,
And lightly bears the burden of its leaves,
But this through worthless soil and sultry vapors
Has thickened stems, and bloated, swollen leaves ...
And more ...and of myself I can know nothing,
And heavy scales are crusted on my eyes,
Impeding judgment ...
[He hastily steps before the mirror again.]
Soulless tool!
Not like some books and men caught unawares:
Thou never canst reveal the hidden truth
As in a lightning flash.
SERVANT. (returning). My master.
MERCHANT. Well?
SERVANT. The guests depart. The father of thy bride
And others have been asking after thee.
MERCHANT. And what of her?
SERVANT. She takes leave of her parents.
[MERCHANT stands a moment with staring eyes, then goes out at
the door to the left with long strides. SERVANT follows him. The stage
remains empty for a short time. The the MERCHANT reënters,
bearing a candelabrum which he places on the table beside the
evening drink. SOBEIDE enters behind him, led by her
father and mother. All stop in the centre of the room,
some-what to the left, the MERCHANT slightly
removed from the rest. SOBEIDE gently
releases herself. Her veil hangs down
behind her. She wears a string of
pearls in her hair, a larger one about her neck.]
FATHER. From much in life I have been forced to part.
This is the hardest. My belovéd daughter,
This is the day which I began to dread
When still I saw thee smiling in thy cradle,
And which has been my nightmare o'er and o'er.
(To the MERCHANT.)
Forgive me. She is more to me than child.
I give thee that for which I have no name,
For every name comprises but a part —
But she was everything to me!
SOBEIDE. Dear father,
My mother will be with thee.
MOTHER (gently). Cross him not:
He is quite right to overlook his wife.
I have become a part of his own being,
What strikes me, strikes him too; but what I do
Affects him only as when right and left
Of his own body meet. Meanwhile, however,
The soul remains through all its days a nursling,
And reaches out for breasts more full of life.
Farewell. Be no worse helpmeet than I was,
And mayst thou be as happy too. This word
Embraces all.
SOBEIDE. Embrace — that is the word;
Till now my fate was in your own embraced,
But now the life of this man standing here
Swings wide its gates, and in this single moment
I breathe for once the blessed air of freedom:
No longer yours, and still not his as yet.
I beg you, go; for this unwonted thing,
As new to me as wine, has greater power,
And makes me view my life and his and yours
With other eyes than were perhaps befitting.
(With a forced smile.)
I beg you, look not in such wonderment:
Such notions oft go flitting through my head,
Nor dream nor yet reality. Ye know,
As child I was much worse. And then the dance
Which I invented, is't not such a thing:
Wherein from torchlight and the black of night
I made myself a shifting, drifting palace,
From which I then emerged, as do the queens
Of fire and ocean in the fairy-tales.
[The MOTHER has meanwhile thrown the FATHER a glance and
has noiselessly gone to the door. Noiselessly the FATHER has followed her.
Now they stand with clasped hands in the doorway, to vanish the next
moment.]
Ye go so softly? What? And are ye gone.?
[She turns and stands silent, her eyes cast down.]
MERCHANT. (caresses her with a long look, then goes to the rear,
but stops again irresolute).
Wilt thou not lay aside thy viel?
[SOBEIDE starts, looks about her absent-minadedly.]
MERCHANT. (points to the glass). 'Tis younder.
[SOBEIDE takes no step, loosens mechanically the
veil from her hair.]
MERCHANT. Here — in thy house — and just at first perhaps
Thou mayst lack much. This house, since mother's death,
Has grown disused to serve a woman's needs
And our utensils here do not display
The splendor and magnificence in which
I fain had seen thee framed, but yet for me
Scant beauty dwells in what all men may have:
So from the stuffy air of chests and caskets
That, like the sandal-wood in sanctuary,
Half took my breath, I had all these removed
And placed there in thy chamber for thy service,
Where something of my mother's presence still —
Forgive me — seems to cling. I thought in this
To show and teach thee something ... On some things
There are mute symbols deeply stamped, with which
The air grows laden in our quiet hours,
And fuses something with our consciousness
That could not well be said, nor was to be.
[Pause.]
It hurts me when I see thee thus, benumbed
By all these overladen moments, that
Scarce walk upright beneath their heavy burden.
But let me say, all good things enter in
Our souls in quiet unpretentious ways,
And not with show and noise. One keeps expecting
To see Life suddenly appear somewhere
On the horizon, like a new domain,
A country yet untrodden. Yet the distance
Remains unpeopled; slowly then our eyes
Perceive its traces ling'ring here and yonder,
And that it compasses, embraces, us,
And bears us, is in us, and nowhere fails us.
The words I say can give thee little pleasure,
Too much renunciation rings in them.
But not to me, by Heaven! My sweet child,
Not like a beggar do I feel before thee,
(With a long look at her.)
However fair thy youth's consummate glory
Envelop thee from top to toe ... thou knowest
Not much about my life, thou hast but seen
A fragment of its shell, as dimly gleaming
In shadows through the op'nings of a hedge.
I wish thine eye might pierce the heart of it:
As fully as the earth beneath my feet
have I put from me all things low and common.
Callst thou that easy, since I now am old?
'Tis true, I've lost some friends by death ere this —
And thou at most thy grandam — many friends,
And those that live, where are they scattered now?
To them was linked the long forgotten quiver
Of nights of youth, those evening hours in which
Vague fear with monstrous, sultry happiness
Was mingled, and the perfume of young locks
With darkling breezes wafted from the stars.

The glamor of the motley towns and cities,
The distant purple haze — that now is gone,
Nor could be found, though I should go to seek it;
But here within me, when I call, there rises
A something, rules my spirit, and I feel
As if it might in thee as well —
[He changes his tone.]
Knowst thou the day, on which thou needst must dance
Before thy father's guests? A smile unfading
Dwelt on thy lips, than any string of pearls
More fair, and sadder than my mother's smile,
Which thou hast ne'er beheld. This is to blame:
That smile and dance were interlaced, like wondrous
Fingers of dreamlike possibilities.
Wouldst thou they ne'er had been, since they're to blame,
My wife, that thou art standing here with me?
SOBEIDE (in such a tone that her voice is heard to strike her teeth).
Commandest thou that I should dance? If not,
Commandest thou some other thing?
MERCHANT. My wife,
How wild thou speakest with me, and how strangely!
SOBEIDE. Wild? Hard, perhaps: my fate is none too soft.
Thou speakest as a good man speaks, then be
So good as not to speak with me today.
I am thy chattel, take me as thy chattel,
And let me, like a chattel, keep my thoughts
Unspoken, only uttered to myself!
[She weeps silently with compressed lips, her face turned toward
the darkness.]
MERCHANT. So many tears and in such silence. This
Is not the shudder that relieves the anguish
Of youth. Here there is deeper pain to quiet
Than inborn rigidness of timid spirits.
SOBEIDE. Lord, shouldst thou waken in the night and find
Me weeping thus whenas I seem to sleep,
Then wake me, lest I do what thy good right
Forbids me. For in dreams upon thy bed
I shall be seeing then another man
And longing for him; this were not becoming,
And makes me shudder at myself to think it.
Oh promise me that thou wilt then awake me!
[Pause. The MERCHANT is silent; deep feeling darkens his
face.]
No question who it is? Does that not matter?
No? But thy face is gloomy and thou breathest
With effort? Then I will myself confess it:
Thou hast beheld him at our house ere now,
His name is Ganem — son of old Shalnassar,
The carpet-dealer ——— and 'tis three years now
Since first I knew him. But since yesteryear
I have not seen him more.
This I have said, this last thing I reveal,
Because I will permit no sediment
Of secrecy and lies to lurk within me.
I care not thou shouldst know: I am no vessel
Sold off as pure, but lined with verdigris
To eat its bottom out — and then because
I wanted to be spared his frequent visits
In this abode — for that were hard to bear.
MERCHANT. (threateningly, but soon choked by wrath and pain).
Thou! Thou hast ... thou hast ...
[He claps his hands to his face.]
SOBEIDE. Thou weepest too, then, on thy wedding-day?
And have I spoiled some dream for thee? Look hither:
Thou sayst, I am so young, and this, and this —
[Points to hair and cheeks.]
Are young indeed, but weary is my spirit,
So weary, that there is no word to tell
How weary and how aged before my time.
We are one age, perhaps thou art the younger.
In conversation once thou saidst to me,
That almost all the years since I was born
Had passed for thee in sitting in thy gardens
And in the quiet tower thou hast builded,
To watch the stars from it. 'Twas on that day
It first seemed possible to me, that thy
And, more than that, my father's fond desire
Might be ... fulfilled. For I supposed the air
In this thy house must have some lightness in it,
So light, so burdenless! — And in our house
It was so overladen with remembrance,
The airy corpse of sleepless nights went floating
All through it, and on all the walls there hung
The burden of those fondly cherished hopes,
Once vivid, then rejected, long since faded.
The glances of my parents rested ever
Upon me, and their whole existence. — Well,
Too well I knew each quiver of an eyelash,
And over all there was the constant pressure
Of thy commanding will, that on my soul
Lay like a coverlet of heavy sleep.
'Twas common, that I yielded at the last:
I seek no other word. And yet the common
Is strong, and all our life is full of it.
How could I thrust it down and trample on it,
While I was floundering in it up to the neck?
MERCHANT. So my desire lay like a cruel nightmare
Upon thy breast! Then thou must surely hate me ...
SOBEIDE. I hate thee not, I have not learned to hate,
And only just began to learn to love.
The lessons stopped, but I am fairly able
To do such things as, with that smile thou knowest,
To dance, with heart as heavy as the stones,
To face each heavy day, each coming evil
With smiles: the utmost power of my youth
That smile consumed, but to the bitter end
I wore it, and so here I stand with thee.
MERCHANT. In this I see but shadowy connection.
SOBEIDE. How I connect my being forced to smile
And finally becoming wife to thee?
Wilt thou know this? And must I tell thee all?
Then knowst thou, since thou art rich, so little
Of life, and hast no eyes for aught but stars,
And flowers in thy heated greenhouse? Listen:
This is the cause: a poor man is my father,
Not always poor, much worse: once rich, now poor,
And many people's debtor, most of all
Thy debtor. And his starving spirit lived
Upon my smile, as other people's hearts
On other lies. These last years, since thou camest,
I knew my task; till then had been my schooling.
MERCHANT. And so became my wife!
As quick she would have grasped her pointed shears
And opened up a vein and with her blood
Have let her life run out into a bath,
If that had been the price with which to purchase
Her father's freedom from his creditor!
... Thus is a wish fulfilled!
SOBEIDE. Be not distressed. This is the way of life.
I am myself as in a waking dream.
As one who, taken sick, no more aright
Compares his thoughts, nor any more remembers
How on the day before he viewed a matter,
Nor what he then had feared or had expected:
He cannot look with eyes of yesterday ...
So also when we reach the worser stages
Of that great illness: Life. I scarcely know
Myself how great my fear of many things,
How much I longed for others, and I feel,
When some things cross my mind, as if it were
Another woman's fate, and not my own,
Just some one that I know about, not I.
I tell thee, I am bitter, but not evil:
And if at first I was too wild for thee,
There will be no deception in me later,
When I shall sit at ease and watch thy gardeners.
My head is tired out. I grow so dizzy,
When I must keep two things within myself
That fight against each other. Much too long
Have I been forced to do this. Give me peace!
Thou giv'st me this, and for that I am grateful.
Call not this little: terrible in weakness
Is everything that grows on shifting sands
Of doubt. But here is perfect certainty
MERCHANT. And how of him?
SOBEIDE. That too must not distress thee.
'Twere hard to judge, had I concealed it from thee;
I have revealed it now, so let it rest.
MERCHANT. Thou art not free of him!
SOBEIDE. So thinkest thou?
When is one "free?" Things have no hold on us,
Except we have in us the will to hold them.
All that is past. [Gesture.]
MERCHANT. (after a pause).
His love was like to thine?
[SOBEIDE nods.]
But then, why then, how has it come to pass
That he was not the one —
SOBEIDE. Why, we were poor!
No, more than poor, thou knowst. His father, too.
Poor too. Besides, a gloomy man, as hard
As mine was all too soft, and on him weighing
As mine on me. The whole much easier
To live through than to put in words. For years
It lasted. We were children when it started,
Ere long as tired as foals, too early harnessed
For drawing heavy wagons in the harvest.
MERCHANT. But let me tell thee, this cannot be true
About his father. I know old Shalnassar,
The carpet-dealer. Well, he is a graybeard,
And he who will may speak good of his name,
But I will not. A wicked, bad old man!
SOBEIDE. May be, all one. To him it is his father.
I ne'er have seen him. Ganem sees him so.
He calls him sick, is saddened when he speaks
Of him. And therefore I have never seen him,
That is, not since my childhood, when I saw
Him now and then upon the window leaning.
MERCHANT. But he's not poor, no, anything but poor!
SOBEIDE. (sure of her facts, sadly smiling).
Thinkst thou I should be here?
MERCHANT. And he?
SOBEIDE. What, he?
MERCHANT. He clearly made thee feel
He thought impossible, what he and thou
Had wished for years and long held possible?
SOBEIDE. Why, for it was impossible? ... and then
"Had wished for years" — thou seest, all these matters
Are different, and the words we use
Are different. At one time this has ripened,
But to decay again. For there are moments
With cheeks that burn like the eternal suns —
When somewhere hovers mute an unconfessed
Confession, somewhere vanishes in air
The echo of a call that never reached
Its utterance; here in me something whispers,
"I yielded to him;" mark: in thought! "I yielded" —
The following moment swallows everything,
As night the lightning flash ... How all began
And ended? Well, in this wise: fist I sealed
My lips, soon then set seal upon my eye-lids,
And he —
MERCHANT. Well, how was he?
SOBEIDE. Why, very noble.
As one who seeks to sully his own image
In other eyes, to spare that other pain —
Quite different, no longer kind as once
— It was the greatest kindness, so to act —
His spirit rent and full of mockery, that
Perhaps was bitterer to himself than me,
Just like an actor oftentimes, so strangely
With set intent. At other times again
Discoursing of the future, of the time
When I should give my hand —
MERCHANT. (vehemently). To me?
SOBEIDE. (coldly).
When I should give my hand to any other; —
Describing what he knew that I should never
Endure, if life should ever take that form.
As little as himself would e'er have borne it
A single hour, for he but made a show,
Acquaint with me, and knowing it would cost
The less of pain to wrench my heart from him,
So soon as I had come to doubt his faith.

'Twas too well acted, but what wealth of goodness
Was there.
MERCHANT. The greatest goodness, if 'twas really
Naught but a pose assumed.
SOBEIDE. (passionately).
I beg thee, husband,
This one thing: ruin not our life together.
As yet 'tis young and blind as tiny fledglings,
A single speech like this might swiftly slay it!
I shall not be an evil wife to thee:
I mean that slowly I shall find, perhaps,
In other things a little of that bliss
For which I held out eager fingers, thinking
There was a land quite full of it, both air
And earth, and one might enter into it.
I know by now that I was not to enter ...
I shall be almost happy in that day,
All longing, painless, shared 'twixt past and present,
Like shining sunlight on the fresh green trees,
And like an unburdened sky behind the garden
The future: empty, yet quite full of light ...
But we must give it time to grow:
As yet confusion everywhere prevails.
Thou must assist me, it must never happen
That with ill-chosen words thou link this present
Too strongly to the life which now is over.
They must be parted by a wall of glass,
As airtight and as rigid as in dreams.
(At the window).
That evening must not come, that should discover
Me sitting at this window without thee:
— Just not to be at home, not from the window
Of my long girlhood's chamber to look out
Into the darkness has a dangerous,
Peculiar and confusing power, as if
I lay upon the open road, no man's possession,
As fully mine as never in my dreams!
A maiden's life is much more strictly ruled
By pressure of the air, than thou conceivest,
To whom it seems most natural to be free.
The evening ne'er must come, when I should thus
Stand here, with all the weight of heavy shadows,
My parents' eyes, all, all behind me thrust,
Involved in yon dark hangings at my back,
And this brave landscape with the golden stars,
The gentle breeze, the bushes, thus before me.
(With growing agitation.)
The evening ne'er must come, when I should see
All this with eyes like these, to say to me:
Here lies a road that shimmers in the moonlight:
Before the gentle breeze the next light cloudlet
Impels to meet the moon, a man could run
That road unto its end, between the hedges,
Then comes a cross-road, now a planted field,
And then the shadow of the standing corn,
At last a garden! There his hand would touch
At once a curtain, back of which is all:
All kissing, laughing, all the happiness
This world can give promiscuously flung
About like balls of golden wool, such bliss
That but a drop of it on parchéd lips
Suffices to be lighter than a flame,
To see no more of difficulty, nor
To understand what men call ugliness!
(Almost shrieking.)
The evening ne'er must come, that with a thousand
Unfettered tongues should cry to me: why not?
Why hast thou never run in dark of night
That road? Thy feet were young, thy breath sufficient:
Why hast thou saved it, that thou mightst have plenty
To weep a thousand nights upon thy pillow?
[She turns her back to the window, clutches the table, collapses
and falls to her knees, and remains thus, her face pressed to the table, her
body shaken with weeping. A long pause.]
MERCHANT. And if the first door I should open wide,
The only locked one on this road of love?
[He opens the small doorway leading into the garden on the
right; the moonlight enters.]
SOBEIDE (still kneeling by the table).
Art thou so cruel as, in this first hour,
To make a silly pastime of my weeping?
Art thou so fain to put thy scorn upon me?
Art thou so proud of holding me securely?
MERCHANT (with the utmost self-control).
How much I could have wished that thou hadst learned
To know me otherwise, but now there is
No time for that.
Thy father, if 'tis this which so constrains thee,
Thy father owes me nothing now, indeed
Within some days agreements have been made
Between us twain, from which some little profit
And so, I hope, a much belated gleam
of joyousness may come.
[She has crept closer to him on her knees, listening.]
So then thou mightest —
Thou mayst, I mean to say, if it was this
That lamed thee most, if in this — alien dwelling
Again thou feel the will to live, which thou
Hadst lost, if, as from heavy sleep aroused,
Yet not awake, thou feel it is this portal
That leads thee out to pulsing, waking life —
Then in the name of God and of the stars
I give thee leave to go where'er thou wilt.
SOBEIDE (still on her knees). What?
MERCHANT. I do no more regard thee as my wife
Than any other maid who, for protection
From tempest or from robbers by the wayside,
Had entered for a space into my house,
And I renounce herewith my claim upon thee,
Just as I have no valid right to any,
Whom such a chance might cast beneath my roof.
SOBEIDE. What sayest thou?
MERCHANT. I say that thou art free
To pass out through this door, and where thou wilt.
Free as the wind, the butterfly, the water.
SOBEIDE (half standing).
To go?
MERCHANT. To go.
SOBEIDE. Where'er I will?
MERCHANT. Where'er
Thou wilt, and at what time thou wilt.
SOBEIDE (still half dazed, now at the door). Now? Here?
MERCHANT. Or now, or later. Here, or otherwhere.
SOBEIDE (doubtfully).
But to my parents only?
MERCHANT (in a more decided tone).
Where thou wilt.
SOBEIDE (laughing and weeping at once).
This dost thou then? O never in a dream
I ventured such a thought, in maddest dreams
I ne'er had crept to thee upon my knees
[She falls on her knees before him.]
With this request, lest I should see thy laughter
Upon such madness ... yet thou doest it,
Thou doest it! O thou! Thou good, good man!
[He raises her gently, she stands bewildered.]
MERCHANT (turns away).
When wilt thou go?
SOBEIDE. This very instant, now!
O be not angry, think not ill of me!
Consider: can I tarry in thy house,
A stranger's house this night? Must I not go
At once to him, since I belong to him?
How may his property this night inhabit
An alien house, as it were masterless?
MERCHANT (bitterly).
Already his?
SOBEIDE. Why sir, a proper woman
Is never masterless: for from her father
Her husband takes her, she belongs to him,
Be he alive or resting in the earth.
Her next and latest master — that is Death.
MERCHANT. Then wilt thou not, at least till break of day,
Return to rest at home?
SOBEIDE. No, no, my friend.
All that is past. My road, once and for all,
Is not the common one, this hour divides
Me altogether from all maiden ways.
So let me walk it to its very end
In this one night, that in a later day
All this be like a dream, nor I have need
To feel ashamed.
MERCHANT. Then go!
SOBEIDE. I give thee pain?
[MERCHANT turns away.]
Permit a single draught from yonder goblet.
MERCHANT. It was my mother's, take it to thyself.
SOBEIDE. I cannot, Lord. But let me drink from it.
[Drinks.]
MERCHANT. Drain this, and never mayst thou need in life
To quench thy thirst with wine from any goblet
Less pure than that.
SOBEIDE. Farewell.
MERCHANT. Farewell.
[She is already on the threshold.]
Hast thou no fear? Thou never yet hast walked
Alone. We dwell without the city wall.
SOBEIDE. Dear friend, I feel above all weakling fear,
And light my foot, as never in the daytime.
[Exit.]
MERCHANT (after following her long with his eyes, with a gesture of pain).
As if some plant were drawing quiet rootlets
From out my heart, to take wing after her,
And air were entering all the empty sockets!
[He steps away from the window.]
Does she not really seem to me less fair,
So hasty, so desirous to run thither,
Where scarce she knows if any wait her coming!
No: 'tis her youth that I must see aright;
This is a part of all things beautiful,
And all this haste becomes this creature just
As mute aspects become the fairest flowers.
[Pause.]
I think what I have done is of a part
With my conception of the world's great movement.
I will not have one set of lofty thoughts
When I behold high up the circling stars,
And others when a young girl stands before me.
What there is truth, must be so here as well,
And I must say, if yonder wedded child
Cannot endure to harbor in her spirit
Two things, of which the one belies the other,
Am I prepared to make my acts deny
What I have learned through groping premonition
And reason from that monstrous principle
That towers upon the earth and strikes the stars?
I call it Life, that monstrous thing, this too
Is life — and who might venture to divide them?
And what is ripeness, if not recognizing
That men and stars have but one law to guide them?
And so herein I see the hand of fate,
That bids me live as lonely as before,
And heirless — when I speak the last good-by —
And with no loving hand in mine, to die.

SCENE II

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

SHALNASS. Were I as rich as you regard me — truly
I am not so, quite far from that, my friend —
I could not even then grant this postponement,
Nay, really, friend, and solely for your sake:
For too indulgent creditors, by Heaven,
Are debtors' ruin.
DEBTOR. Hear me now, Shalnassar!
SHALNASS. No more. I can hear nothing. Yea, my deafness
But grows apace with all your talking. Go!
Go home, I say: think how you may retrench.
I know your house, 'tis overrun with vermin,
I mean the servants. Curtail the expenses
Your wife has caused: they are most unbecoming
For your position. What? I am not here
To give you counsel. Home with you, I tell you.
DEBTOR. I wanted to, my heart detains me here,
This heart that swells with pain. Go home?
To me
The very door of my own house is hateful.
I cannot enter, but some creditor
Would block my way.
SHALNASS. Well, what a fool you were.
Go home and join your lovely wife, be off!
Go home! Bring offspring into life. Then starve!
[He claps his hands. The Armenian slave
comes up the stairs. SHALNASSAR whispers with
him, without heeding the other.]
DEBTOR. Not fifty florins have I in the world.
You spoke of servants? Aye, one withered crone
To carry water, that is all. And she
How long? No wretch abandoned, fed with alms,
Feels misery like mine: for I have known
The sweets of wealth. Through every night I slept,
Contentment round my head, and sweet was morning.
But hush! she loves me still, and so my failure
Is bright and golden. O, she is my wife!
SHALNASS. I beg you, go, the lamps will have to burn
So long as you are standing round. Go with him.
Here are the keys.
DEBTOR (overcoming his fear). A word, good Shalnassar!
I had not wished to beg you for reprieve.
SHALNASS. What? Does my deafness cause me some illusion?
DEBTOR. No, really.
SHALNASS. But?
DEBTOR. But for another loan.
SHALNASS (furious).
What do you want?
DEBTOR. Not what I want, but must.
Thou never hast beheld her, thou must see her!
My heavy heart gives o'er its sullen beating
And leaps with joy, whene'er I look upon her.
(With growing agitation.)
All this must yet be altered. Her fair limbs
Are for the cult of tenderness created,
Not for the savage claws of desperation.
She cannot go a-begging, with such hair.
Her mouth is proud as it is sweet. O, fate
Is trying to outwit me — but I scorn it —
If thou couldst see her, old man —
SHALNASS. I will see her!
Tell her the man of years, upon whose gold
Her husband young so much depends — now mark:
The good old man, say, the decrepit graybeard —
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 Gülistane 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.
GÜLISTANE Comes up the stairs,
an old slave-woman behind her.
GANEM bends forward from a
niche above, spies GÜLISTANE 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.]
GÜLISTANE. I? From my bath I come
And go now to my chamber.
GANEM. How thou shinest
From bathing.
GÜLISTANE. 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!
GÜLISTANE. Aye, if thou wert! Thy father is quite well.
He bade me dine alone with him this evening.
GANEM. Accursèd skill, that roused this blood again,
Which was already half coagulated.
I saw him speaking with thee just this morning.
What was it?
GÜLISTANE. I have told thee.
GANEM. Speak, was that all? Thou liest, there was more!
GÜLISTANE. 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.
GÜLISTANE. Well,
What dost thou base on this?
GANEM. The greatest hope.
[He whispers.]
GÜLISTANE. 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 —
GÜLISTANE. For what reward?
GANEM. For this,
That, thinking I am wed, she also thinks
To call me husband — after.
GÜLISTANE. Who'll believe it? ...
GANEM. There long has been a woman who believes it.
GÜLISTANE. 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.
GÜLISTANE. Who is't?
GANEM. The limping daughter of a poor
Old pastrycook, who lives in the last alley
Down in the sailors' quarter.
GÜLISTANE. 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.
GÜLISTANE. And who gives her the poison?
GANEM. Why, her father,
By keeping it where she can steal it from him.
GÜLISTANE. 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.
GÜLISTANE. 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 —
GÜLISTANE. (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.
GÜLISTANE. 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.]
GÜLISTANE. 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.
[GÜLISTANE goes up the stairs. The Armenian slave comes
from below. GANEM turns to go out on the right.]
SLAVE. Was Gülistane 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 bearing
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,
[GÜLISTANE 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.
GÜLISTANE. 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.
GÜLISTANE. 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.
GÜLISTANE. How thank thee?
[SHALNASSAR does not understand.]
GÜLISTANE. 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.]
GÜLISTANE. 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.
GÜLISTANE. Thou shalt have kisses.
[The baying of the dogs grows stronger, seems nearer.]
SHALNASS. Say, do young lovers
Give better gifts?
GÜLISTANE. 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.
GÜLISTANE. 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 GÜLISTANE, 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.
GÜLISTANE. Some business?
SHALNASS. (to her). None,
But serving thee.
[He puts out his hand to close the clasp at her neck, but
fails.]
GÜLISTANE. 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.
GÜLISTANE. A strange idea.
SHALNASS. Come, for my sake.
GÜLISTANE. Why, then I must put up
My hair.
SHALNASS. Then put it up. I cannot live
While thou delayest.
[GÜLISTANE 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 linkèd 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!
[GÜLISTANE and an old serving-woman come down the stairs
and go to the presents by the table.]
SOBEIDE (starting).
Ganem, is it not thou?
GÜLISTANE (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.
GÜLISTANE (turning to her).
Who is thy friend, and who will tell us all?
SOBEIDE (with innocent friendliness).
Why, Ganem.
GÜLISTANE. Oh, what business hast thou here?
SOBEIDE (steps closer, looks fixedly at her).
What, art thou not the widow
Of Kamkar, the ship-captain?
GÜLISTANE. And thou the daughter
Of Bachtjar, the gem-dealer?
[They regard each other attentively.]
SOBEIDE. It is long since
We saw each other.
GÜLISTANE. 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 —
GÜLISTANE. 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?
GÜLISTANE. They are my kin. What is't to thee,
How long? But then, what odds? Why then,
three years. [SOBEIDE is silent.]
GÜLISTANE (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. GÜLISTANE takes it out of her hand and
thrusts with it at SOBEIDE.]
SOBEIDE. Alas, why prickst thou me?
GÜLISTANE. 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,
O 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 Gülistane's!
[Down the stairs come a fluting dwarf and an eff eminate-looking
slave playing a lute, preceded by others with lights; then SHALNASSAR,
leaning on GÜLISTANE; finally a eunuch with a whip stuck in
his belt. GÜLISTANE frees herself and comes forward, seeming
to search the floor for something; the others come forward also. The
music ceases.]
GÜLISTANE (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.
GÜLISTANE. It was a secret,
The ointment in it.
GANEM (close to GÜLISTANE). 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 GÜLISTANE, 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 GÜLISTANE).
Say no, say he is lying!
GÜLISTANE. 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!
GÜLISTANE (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!
GÜLISTANE (speaking backward over her shoulder). I go
Where'er my heart commands.
GANEM (beseechingly). Go not with him!
GÜLISTANE. Oh, let us through: there will be other days.
GANEM (lying before her on the stairs).
Go not with him!
GÜLISTANE (turning around).
Thou daughter of old Bachtjar,
Keep him, I say, I want him not, I trample
Upon his fingers with my feet! Seest thou?
SOBEIDE (as if demented).
Aye, aye, now let us dance a merry round!
Take thou my hand and Ganem's; I Shalnassar's.
Our hair we'll loosen, and that one of us
That has the longer hair shall have the young one
Tonight — tomorrow just the other way!
King Baseness sits enthroned! And from our faces
Lies drip like poison from the salamander!
I claim my share in your high revelry.
(To GANEM, who angrily watches them mount the stairs.)
Go up and steal her from thy father's bed
And choke him sleeping: drunken men are helpless!
I see how fain thou art to lie with her.
When thou are sated or wouldst have a change,
Then come to me, but softly we will tread,
For heavy sleep comes not to my old husband,
Such as they have, who can give ear to this,
And then sleep through it!
[She casts herself on the floor.]
But with grievous howling
I will arouse this house to shame and wrath
And lamentation ...
(She lies groaning.)
... I have loved thee so,
And so thou tramplest on me!
[An old slave appears in the background, putting out the lights;
he picks up a fallen fruit and eats it.]
GANEM (claps his hands in sudden anger).
Come, take her out! Here is a shrieking woman,
I scarcely know her, says she weeps for me.
Her father fain would wed her to the merchant,
The wealthy one, but she perverts the whole,
And says her husband is a similar pander,
But he's no more than fool, for aught I see.
(He steps close to her, mockingly sympathetic.)
O ye, too credulous by far. But then,
Your nature's more to blame than skill of ours.
No, get thee up. I will no more torment thee.
SOBEIDE (raises herself up. Her voice is hard).
Then naught was true, and back of all is naught.
From this I cannot cleanse myself again:
What came into my soul today, remaineth.
Another might dispel it: I'm too weary.
(Stands up.)
Away! I know my course, but now away
From here!
[The old slave has gone slowly down the stairs.]
GANEM. I will not hold thee. Yet the road —
How wilt thou find it? Still, thou foundst it once.
SOBEIDE. The road, the self-same road!
(She shudders.) Yon aged man
Shall go with me. I have no fear, but still
I would not be alone: until the dawn —
[GANEM goes up stage to fetch the slave.]
SOBEIDE. Meseems I wear a robe to which the pest
And horrid traces of wild drunkenness
And wilder nights are clinging, and I cannot
Put off the robe, but all my flesh goes too.
Now I must die, and all will then be well.
But speedily, before this shadow-thinking
About my father gathers blood again:
Else 'twill grow stronger, drag me back to life,
And I must travel onward in this body.
GANEM (slowly leads the old slave forward).
Give heed. This is rich Chorab's wife, the merchant.
Hast understood?
OLD SLAVE (nods). The rich one.
GANEM. Aye, thou shalt
Escort her.
OLD SLAVE. What?
GANEM. I say, thou art to lead her
Back to her house.
(OLD SLAVE nods.)
SOBEIDE. Just to the garden wall.
From there I only know how I must go.
Will he do that? I thank thee. That is good,
Most good. Come, aged man, I go with thee.
GANEM. Go out this door, the old man knows the path.
SOBEIDE. He knows it, that is good, most good. We go.
[They go out through the door at the right. GANEM turns to
mount the stairs.]

SCENE III

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

GARDENER. The rest are coming now. But no, that is
A single man ... The master!
WIFE. What? He's up
Ere dawn, and yesterday his wedding-day?
Alone he walks the garden — that's no man
Like other men.
GARDENER. Be still, he's coming hither.
MERCHANT (walks up slowly from the left).
The hour of morn, before the sun is up,
When all the branches in the lifeless light
Hang dead and dull, is terrible. I feel
As if I saw the whole world in a frightful
And vacant glass, as dreary as my mind's eye.
O would all flowers might wither! Would my garden
Were poisonous morass, filled to the full
With rotted corpses of these blooming trees,
And my corpse in their midst.
[He is pulling to pieces a blossoming twig, stops short and
drops it.]
Ah, what a fool!
A gray-haired fool, as old as melancholy,
Ridiculous as old! I'll sit me down
And bind up wreaths and weep into the water.
[He walks on a few paces, lifts his hand as if
involuntarily to his heart.]
O how like glass this is, and how the finger
With which fate raps upon it, like to iron!
Years form no rings on men as on the trees,
Nor fashion breast-plates to protect the heart.
[Again he walks a few paces, and so comes upon the gardener, who
takes off his straw hat: he starts up out of his revery, and looks inquiringly
at the gardener.]
GARDENER. Thy servant Sheriar, lord; third gardener I.
MERCHANT. What? Sheriar, Oh yes. And this thy wife?
GARDENER. Aye, lord.
MERCHANT. But she is younger far than thou,
And once thou cam'st to me to make complaint
That she and some young lad, — I can't recall ...
GARDENER. It was the donkey-driver.
MERCHANT. So I chased
Him from my service, and she ran away.
GARDENER (bowing low).
Thou know'st the sacred courses of the stars,
Yet thou rememberest the worm as well,
That in the dust once crawled beside thy feet.
'Tis so, my lord. But she returned to me,
And lives with me thenceforth.
MERCHANT. And lives with thee?
The fellow beat her, doubtless! Thou dost not.
[He turns away, his tone becomes bitter.]
Why, let us seat ourselves here in the grass,
And each will tell his story to the other.
He lives with her thenceforth. Why yes, he has her!
Possession is the end of all! And folly
It were to scorn the common, when our life
Is made up of the common through and through.
[Exit to the right with vigorous strides.]
WIFE (to the gardener).
What did he say to thee?
GARDENER. Oh, nothing, nothing.
[SOBEIDE and the camel-driver appear at the latticed gate.]
WIFE. I'll tell thee something.
[Draws near him.]
Look, look there!
The bride! That is our master's bride!
And see how pale and overwrought.
GARDENER. Pay heed
To thine affairs.
WIFE. Look there, she has no veil,
And see who's with her. Look. Why, that is none
Of master's servants, is it?
GARDENER. I don't know.
[SOBEIDE puts her arm through the lattice, seeking the lock.]
WIFE. She wants to enter. Hast thou not the key?
GARDENER (looking up).
Aye, that I have, and since she is the mistress,
She must be served before she opes her lips.
[He goes to the gate and unlocks it. SOBEIDE enters, the old
slave behind her. The gardener locks the gate. SOBEIDE walks forward with
absent look, the old slave following. The gardener walks past her, takes off
his straw hat, and is about to return to his work. The wife stands a few
paces to the rear, parts the bushes curiously.]
SOBEIDE. Pray tell me, is the pond not here at hand,
The big one, with the willows on its banks?
GARDENER (pointing to the right).
Down there it lies, my mistress, thou canst see it.
But shall I guide thee?
SOBEIDE (with a vehement gesture). No, no, leave me, go!
[She is about to go off toward the right; the old slave
catches her dress and holds her back. She turns. OLD SLAVE holds
out his hand like a beggar, but withdraws it at once in embarrassment.]
SOBEIDE. What?
OLD SLAVE. Thou art at home, I'm going back again.
SOBEIDE. Oh yes, and I have robbed thee of thy sleep,
And give thee naught for it. And thou art old
And poor. But I have nothing, less than nothing!
As poor as I no beggar ever was.
[OLD SLAVE screws up his face to laugh, holds out his
hand again.]
SOBEIDE (looks helplessly about her, puts her hand to her hair,
feels her pearl pendants, takes them off, and gives them to him).
Take this, and this, and go!
OLD SLAVE (shakes his head). Oh no, not that!
SODEIDE (in a torment of haste).
I give them gladly, only go, I beg of thee!
[Starts away.]
OLD SLAVE (holds them in his hand).
No, take them back. Give me some little coin.
I'm but a poor old fool. And they would come,
Shalnassar and the others, down upon me,
And take the pearls away. For I am old
And such a beggar. This would be my ruin.
SOBEIDE. I have naught else. But come again tonight
And bring them to the master here, my husband,
He'll give thee money for them.
OLD SLAVE. Thou'lt be here?
SOBEIDE. Ask but for him; go now and let me go.
[Starts away.]
OLD SLAVE (holds her back).
If he is kind, oh do thou pray for me,
That he may take me as a servant. He
Is rich and has so many. I am eager,
Need little sleep. But in Shalnassar's house
I always have such hunger in the evening.
I will —
SOBEIDE (frees herself).
Just come tonight and speak to him,
And say I wanted him to hear thy prayer.
Now go, I beg thee, for I have no time.
[The old slave goes toward the gate, but stands still in the
shrubbery. The gardener's wife has approached SOBEIDE from the left. SOBE
IDE takes a few steps, then lets her vacant glance wander about, strikes her
brow as if she had forgotten something. She suddenly stands still before the
gardener's wife, looks at her absently, then inquires hastily:]
The pond is there, I hear? The pond?
[Points to the left.]
WIFE. No, here.
[Points to the right.]
Here down this winding path. It turns right there.
Wouldst overtake my lord? He's walking slowly:
When thou art at the crossways, thou wilt see him.
Thou canst not miss him.
SOBEIDE (more agitated). I, the master?
WIFE. Why yes, dost thou not seek him?
SOBEIDE. Him? — Yes, yes,
Then — I'll — go — there.
[Her glance roves anxiously, suddenly is fixed upon an invisible
object at the left rear.]
The tower, is it locked?
WIFE. The tower?
SOBEIDE. Yes, the steps to mount it.
WIFE. No,
The tower's never locked, by day or night.
Dost thou not know?
SOBEIDE. Oh yes.
WIFE. Wilt thou go up it?
SOBEIDE (smiling painfully).
No, no, not now. Perhaps another time.
(Smiling with a friendly gesture.)
Go, then. Go, go.
(Alone.)
The tower, the tower!
And quick. He comes from there. Soon 'tis too late.
[She looks searchingly about her, walks slowly at first to the
left, then runs through the shrubbery. The old slave, who has watched her
attentively, slowly follows her.]
GARDENER (through with his work).
Come here and help me, wife.
WIFE. Yes, right away.
[They take up the barrow and carry it along toward the right.]
MERCHANT (enters from the right.)
I loved her so! Ah, how this life of ours
Resembles dreams illusory. Today
I might have had her, here and always, I!
Possession is the whole: slow-growing power
That sifts down through the soul's unseen and hidden
Interstices, feeds thus the wondrous lamp
Within the spirit, and soon from such eyes
There bursts a mightier, sweeter gleam than moonlight.
Oh, I have loved her so! I fain would see her,
See her once more. My eye sees naught but death:
The flowers wilt before my eyes like candles,
When they begin to run: all, all is dying,
And all dies to no purpose, for she is
Not here —
[The old camel-driver comes running from the left across the
stage to the gardener and shows him something that seems to be happening
rather high in the air to the left; the gardener calls his wife's
attention to it, and all look.]
MERCHANT (becomes aware of this, follows the direction of their glances, grow
s deathly pale).
God, God! Give answer! There, there, there!
The woman on the tower, bending forward,
Why does she so bend forward? Look, look there! [WIFE shrieks and
covers her face.]
GARDENER (runs to the left, looks, calls back).
She lives and moves! Come, master, come this way.
[The merchant runs out, the gardener's wife following.
Immediately thereafter the merchant, the gardener, and his wife come carrying
SOBEIDE, and lay her down in the grass. The gardener takes off his outer
garment and lays it under her head. The old camel-driver stands at some
distance.]
MERCHANT (kneeling).
Thou breathest, thou wilt live for me, thou must!
Thou art too fair to die!
SOBEIDE (opens her eyes).
Forbear, I'm dying; hush, I know it well.
Dear husband, hush, I beg thee. Thee I had
Not thought to see again —
I need to crave thy pardon.
MERCHANT (tenderly). Thou!
SOBEIDE. Not this.
This had to be. — No, what took place last night:
I did to thee what should become no woman,
And all my destiny I grasped and treated
As I in dancing used to treat my veils.
With fingers vain I tampered with my Self.
Speak not, but understand.
MERCHANT. What happened — then?
SOBEIDE. Ask not what happened; ask me not, I beg thee.
I had before been weary: 'twas the same
Up to the end. But now 'tis easy. Thou
Art good, I'll tell thee something else: my parents —
Thou knowest how they are — I bid thee take them
To live with thee.
MERCHANT. Yes, yes, but thou wilt live.
SOBEIDE. No, say not so; but mark, I fain would tell thee
A many things. Oh yes, that graybeard man.
He's very poor, take him into thy house
At my request.
MERCHANT. Now thou shalt bide with me.
I will thy every wish divine: breathe softly
As e'er thou wilt, yet I will be the lyre
To answer every breath with harmony,
Until thou weary and bid it be still.
SOBEIDE. Say not such words, for I am dizzy and
They flicker in my eyes. Lament not much,
I beg of thee. If I remained alive,
All mangled as I am, I never could
Bring children into life for thee; my body
Would be so ugly, whereas formerly
I know I had some beauty. This would be
So hard for thee to bear and hide from me.
But I shall die at once, I know, my dear.
This is so strange: our spirits dwell in us
Like captive birds. And when the cage is shattered,
It flies away. No, no, thou must not smile:
I feel it is so. Look, the flowers know it,
And shine the brighter since I know it too.
Canst thou not understand? Mark well my words. [Pause.]
Art thou still there, and I too, all this while?
Oh, now I see thy face, and it is other
Than e'er I saw till now. Art thou my husband?
MERCHANT. My child!
SOBEIDE. Thy spirit seems to bend and lean
Out of thine eyes, and oh, the words thou speakest!
They quiver in the air, because the heart
So quivers, whence they come. Weep not, I can
Not bear it, for I love thee so. O let
Me see as last of all thine eyes. We should
Have lived together long and had our children.
But now 'tis fearful — for my parents.
[Dies.]
MERCHANT (half bowed).
Thus noiseless falls a star. Meseems, her heart
Was never close united with the world.
And what have I of her, except this glance,
Whose closing was involved in rigid Lethe,
And in such words as by false breath of life
Were made to sound so strong, e'en while they faded,
Just as the wind, ere he lies down to sleep,
Deceitful swells the sails as ne'er before.
[He rises.]
Aye, lift her up. So bitter is this life:
A wish was granted her, and that one door
At which she lay with longing and desire
Was oped — and back she came in such distress,
Death-stricken, that but issued forth the evening prior —
As fishers, cheeks with sun and moon afire,
Prepare their nets — in hopes of great success.
[They lift up the body to carry it in.]





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net