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 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.

Lake in the Grunewald

LAKE IN THE GRUNEWALD

From the Painting by Walter Leistikow

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 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,

[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 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!

[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. ]