PEGASUS IN HARNESS

FIRST SCENE

(The capital, a room at the Andaházys’. Ilka, Jenő.)

JENŐ

It cannot be that I should lose,

ah, Ilka, my one moment’s bliss;

heaven did not make spring for this,

that on the mourning-waste of endless winter

we should forever weep its sweet dreams gone. —

ILKA

Poets alone now pay out virtue’s wage,

the Almighty keeps no hell anymore.

JENŐ

Our nature — which taught us to feel,

sharing one single soul between our breasts —

oh, it does not lie: we shall be happy.

ILKA

If there is happiness in the grave too, Jenő!

Today the loathed bridegroom arrived,

to whom my parents’ reckoning binds me.

JENŐ

Away with them, away with these mournful feelings!

Why do they trouble my love while it lives?

Do you not feel, for all this grief, how sweet

are those few moments of our happier future:

which we must guard jealously

from the doubting eye of the outer world.

Or can only that man be happy, Ilka,

who lives envied by the world?

ILKA

And if you should forget me?

JENŐ

Still you doubt?

The eye is the soul’s mirror; look into mine,

your image shines upon my soul’s own glass.

ILKA

And does my memory fade with the image too? —

Long did I wrestle with my heart, and long

I believed I would have strength to hold it back,

but oh, a woman comes into the world to love.

JENŐ

This word, this sweet one, say it, say it once,

just once, and say this word forever —

and where is bliss more blissful then than my life!

Where is a heaven kinder, Ilka, than you are!

And what more strength is needed for fate’s battle,

when the prize, like you, is so glorious.

ILKA

Oh, they come and will find us, God! (Exit.)

JENŐ

Heaven be with you — for it burns in your eyes. (Going out.)

Lorán, you here?

LORÁN (steps before him)

Rather, it is I who may ask you so!

But now I ask nothing, for I embrace you.

JENŐ

You false one! A gunshot from our town,

and, God knows why, you come to us so rarely.

LORÁN

Because my soul wrestles with itself,

and you are happy: you would not understand my grief.

JENŐ (reproachfully)

Lorán! —

LORÁN

Why did you raise this up like Macbeth’s ghost

in my best hour. — But listen: we have

a lawsuit; its question: the whole of our estate,

and one marriage could set everything right;

my father chose me out as the sacrifice,

to appease, by my marrying, the partisan

god of these century-mouldered disputes

set up against nature.

The girl was pretty, cultured, clever,

of the great world, and despite all that

could speak of something other than finery;

nor was she taken up with her suitors.

And sometimes, for the poor homeland,

dew would gleam in her sky-blue eyes.

JENŐ

Why, this is all fine — and I should pity you?

LORÁN

Hear me out: it is all fine, true, but oh,

cleverness is the cloak of passion;

the soul soars far, far on high,

flies whimsically toward the sky,

outruns it through the endless void,

and forms for itself an ideal —

fights out for itself its own god,

and no other pleasure is dear to it now

than that for which it strove, for which it bled.

I saw her — a woman, if you like,

if there is another of her kind — but there is none —

I saw her, and her image from my eye’s mirror

had not yet pierced my soul, and from the deepest

depths of my spirit this image came to meet it —

an ideal image — and in my heart they fused. —

Do not ask who she is, do not ask what; let no such dross

drag her down into the little world;

enough: my plotted bond became a yoke,

which sells God’s spark off as merchandise

to the higher bidder.

My father threatened to disinherit me; I

rejoiced, because with his wealth, he believed,

he had bought me, but so I became free. —

My father died, yet even from the grave he wants

to rule, and to live in deeds, though dead,

to drag, as a dead man, the one who lives:

in his will, between a parent’s curse

and submission, he leaves me to choose.

JENŐ

Disillusion is the curse of the better heart.

LORÁN

You know only the better half; hear on:

you knew my father’s whims,

family splendor was his favorite notion — he

held it the aim of a man’s life

to lengthen his line’s family tree

and win it glory. As guardian he left

old Herédy, decreeing that I should serve. —

That I should choke my soul’s wild soaring down

in mouldy documents,

for my family’s, for this dead man’s, ornament;

but Pegasus does not learn to plow.

JENŐ

Patience and humility are virtues too —

the wise man rests in his fate’s decree.

LORÁN

Base souls coined that; spirit and forbearance,

this is mud, that a ray that flies above,

drawing its body up with it, yet on high

the air is ethereal to this mass of mud:

and a war breaks out between the twofold element,

the heart the battlefield, which aches, but the peace-price

is paid only by the death of one of them; —

the body’s death: what the churl fears,

the soul’s: resignation in our fate.

But I, who see the vast work to be done,

in my breast the longing, heart, and understanding

that could bear me up to the home of the stars,

could see through how minute, how small

is the God kneaded into the clay, and on his neck

how monstrous is the load that drags him to earth.

Shall I renounce God’s spark in me,

that the dross may safely grow fat? —

JENŐ

Ha, ha, Lorán! You are still the old one! —

Twenty cold winters have withered all

these flowers of mine!

LORÁN

And because snow rules without,

they fled deep into your soul, did they not,

their images more deeply tempered? — And if at times

you do not yield to them, like spoiled

children they punish you; I

must guard mine jealously,

for nonetheless the death of each one

beggars me of one wellspring of treasure.

JENŐ (mocking)

Yet still you took the office.

LORÁN

To you I will tell, my heart’s friend, why:

I founded a secret society,

our watchword: “Liberty.” To deeds it has

not yet come, but it will: if heaven wills it.

My office shields me from all suspicion,

and gives occasion to learn many secrets;

perhaps the pretense will not last long,

for if I am elected deputy,

I’ll strike off my mask; there too the arrow

turns to the war of principles, then the deed will come.

JENŐ

Now a fable comes to mind, attend:

all the clocks ran wrong in one district,

but ran alike, and served their purpose.

The astronomer alone could truly

measure the time, and obstinately

set his to follow the wrong clocks; everywhere

they laughed at the man who’d fix them! —

LORÁN

Oh, do not mock!

JENŐ

I’ll cure you: lead me to your faithful ones.

LORÁN

Cure me of health? — You’d make me sick? But come —

(Exit with Jenő. —

Andaházy enters girt with a sword, and Ilka.)

ANDAHÁZY

Again with eyes wept red, Ilka!

Powder your face, hide the trace

of tears; be merry, grief does not suit

a bride’s face; do as I command.

ILKA

The show is for the world, the grief for me;

for your command is that I murder the sun

as ransom for my life,

which, once gone down: the world too is a grave-pit. (Exit.)

ANDAHÁZY (throwing down his sword)

So this is popularity? — Is this the wage

the homeland can give for our struggle?

A new star rises, brighter, only he

is admired by everyone; and the familiar one,

flagging in its fire — may now fall!

A child — Zordy — thunders down his word. —

On this path no more honor, no more luck;

that I hit upon the narrow track

that leads between the dungeon and reward,

where we arrive: our cleverness decides —

(Zenő and a footman enter.)

FOOTMAN

Your Lordship! The confectioner gives nothing on credit.

ANDAHÁZY

Did you give my name?

FOOTMAN

I did, but he answered

that for that very reason he gives nothing.

ANDAHÁZY

Hah! The scoundrel.

Say, beg him, only till tomorrow.

FOOTMAN

He gives

nothing for fine words; his churlish

greed for money.

ANDAHÁZY

Take him some books.

FOOTMAN

He cannot use them — for Satan now

spreads the Bible with his printing.

ANDAHÁZY

Then to fry on them? — Go, what do you dawdle for! (Footman exits.)

Zenő! You too will not help me as a true companion;

your only greeting is your wept-out eyes,

and you drive me to flee my own house,

where no one clings to me,

only my care. —

ZENŐ

What shall I do? Have I not

given out all my property?

ANDAHÁZY

So, so, again

so many times you’ve thrown in my face

those few florins of yours, which you yourself

squandered long ago.

ZENŐ

Oh, I did not ask for it,

though I suffered want, and while you, courting

other women, scattered it away:

mutely I bore the desolation of your heart.

Why then do you torment your patient prisoner,

why charge her with sin and disgrace,

would you with spite drive off the gnawing

of your bad cause?

ANDAHÁZY

Are you done?

I too will speak: the girl gave her money

gladly, for a young wife’s bonnet.

For she was older than the bridegroom.

ZENŐ

By two weeks. —

ANDAHÁZY

No matter, older.

ZENŐ

Woe is me!

ANDAHÁZY

The noble girl was glad to see

the count for a bridegroom; and the girl’s family

knew not how to net him round —

lest he slip from the lime again. (Zenő weeps.)

Or else show your wife’s virtue;

your diamond finery is fine; if you esteem

your husband more, sell it, and get

paste jewels instead. For it is well known

that you have the real ones, and they’ll be taken for such. —

Today Herédy comes — you see — and will haggle

for my soul; tell me: shall he see how great

the misery is in our house; shall he see

at what small price our need compels me

to give my soul away. — But in my rich abode

I can set the terms; I can say:

to bribe my conviction

there is no price. This raises me higher! And if

I sit at the helm of property’s security,

who would dare assail me with my own bills of exchange?

ZENŐ

But will there be a blessing on this estate? (Gives the jewels.)

Here, here is my last; you have no more reason now

to torment me. —

ANDAHÁZY

And this ring?

ZENŐ

My wedding ring — but take it.

ANDAHÁZY

Today Zordy too comes, with whom our suit runs on,

and if he sees our ravaged home life,

will he take a wife for himself from such a nest?

ZENŐ (with passion)

Only do not sell my daughter; oh, do not be

her hangman — to make her hate by force

the one she learned with a child’s mind to bless.

ANDAHÁZY

Wise parents do not look so far ahead,

as the professors of law do, what

conclusion a principle of law draws with it. —

Who says she should give up her feeling?

That she should tear the warm love from her breast?

A powerful jewel is that bonnet,

a license that covers everything. — —

I am bidden to dinner at Széphalmi’s. —

ZENŐ (aside)

Your fate is endurance! — Be silent, clamoring breast. —

Let no one see how you bleed within,

though the unfeeling mock you,

the laughter of malice is more painful still.

VÁRY (entering)

What do I see! You weep? — Oh, for God’s sake,

who ever saw it fall from the blue sky? — A fine

simile.

ANDAHÁZY

The whole thing’s a joke, I frightened her,

and the angel believed that I was ill.

VÁRY

How could we not feel like marrying

after such fine examples. — Splendid! Splendid!

ZENŐ

We thought that with his bride

he was so taken up that he had even

forgotten his friends.

VÁRY

The true

man of fashion does not forget his friends.

Besides, two days ago I was here

at a magnificent dinner. I must confess

that such noble splendor as here is nowhere.

Good blood will tell! (Laughs.)

ZENŐ

So the fair bride

has quite forgotten us?

VÁRY

The little fool is so happy!

ZENŐ

And what if you

forbade her from the world? —

VÁRY

On the contrary, my bride

could scarcely wish a more courtly, better, gentler

betrothed for herself.

ZENŐ

If you say so. (Exit with Váry.)

ANDAHÁZY (looking after them)

Poor woman! — And I sacrifice such an angel

for a devil. — But not for nothing.

Set high! — And if the way up to that height

leads through the favor of a great lord’s

courtesan, why should I not bow?

He who lives in the world, let him exchange

his heart in good time for a rough stone,

and pay well for it too — for otherwise

it will often grow troublesome,

if everything that is holy must be cast down,

and he must smile besides: it was only a joke. (Exit.)

SECOND SCENE

(The Zordy house. A room, wine and cards on the tables.

Kondor, Dúlházy, Szendrődy, Belényi, Pikó, and others.)

KONDOR (over his wine, surrounded)

Even now you do not clearly know

what our chairman’s aim is? — I believe it. —

But I know, for it was I who led him

into the homeland of reason. — Hush, when I speak! —

Can you keep silent? — He would bring in

a republic and a juster distribution.

Sapienti pauca.

GERŐ (bringing wine)

Of the wine too?

KONDOR

No, in vino veritas.

HARS (comes up quickly and slaps his back)

Hush, old gaffer! Your reasonings —

like salted herring — are food for spoiled

palates; there’s no life in them. Till now I had

one book, the almanac; soon I’ll not have that —

I’ll live without a book, only not to take after you.

KONDOR (in a rage)

Hah, child! Oh, why can I not fence

with my wit, to make you nothing.

HARS

Ha, ha! Ha, ha! There’s no marrow left in your arm.

KONDOR

In every man the marrow is in just one place.

HARS

In yours, in your belly, you filthy wine-skin.

KONDOR

Respect me!

HARS

At five farthings — for your hide.

KONDOR

What does a child like this seek in such a place,

where wise counsel sits over sacred matters.

One who never in his life made a verse,

and knows Ovid only from practice.

HARS

Dinner and good fellows, my wise sir —

that’s the best side of the business. —

They keep voting, Zordy’s all but won.

KONDOR (wiping his tear)

My homeland, this is the man I raised for you!

HARS

The wine-gourd is full, and starts to drip.

DÚLHÁZY (sitting beside Szendrődy)

He wins — ha, ha! Herédy, I have paid you back!

SZENDRŐDY (whispering)

Pray, comrade, go on about Herédy.

DÚLHÁZY

As I said, I took up such a stance

that I could surely look for a higher rank,

I brought down the opposition party,

though at the cost of my popularity; and look,

what happened: while I waited, he

cleverly fished away my reward,

and I, the hero stranded between two stools,

swore to hold to vengeance.

SZENDRŐDY

So then

it is not principle, nor friendship, that draws you here?

DÚLHÁZY

On the contrary: Zordy is a party leader against my principle.

First, because he has no worldly shrewdness,

and the fool does everything on principle,

heedless of the consequences.

Furthermore, he is so headstrong, he can’t

be used as a tool. He has no name

to lend the lad any standing;

all this is enough that we’ll soon outgrow him.

For now there was no better man, and every worthy

is on the Protestant side, because they back

our cause, which, being oppressed, is twice as sweet.

SZENDRŐDY

For your frank word I too will be open.

I own that this headlong progress

I too cannot abide, but it’s the fashion!

And they mock the man who won’t croak along

with them for the old pigtailed principles; and shall I,

the model of every fashion, endure this? —

In my solitary hours, believe me, often

I would weep over the fair aristocracy,

which cannot spit such an owl-breed on a spike,

and more, gives itself up, and out of fashion

mocks the man who takes the field for it.

DÚLHÁZY

Softly, you know that here they worship only

the man who howls out the most coppers from

the beggars for an equality

ill understood.

SZENDRŐDY

I have suffered everything,

but to wear coarse Hungarian frieze instead of foreign cloth,

and to come into contact with such a garlic-stinking

peasant! — By my coat of arms,

I gladly shed my blood for the homeland,

but this is already too much. —

(Hars throws himself down and treads on Szendrődy’s foot.)

Have a care, sir!

HARS (jumps up)

What! I have a care! A million wars!

Do you demand satisfaction, sir?

SZENDRŐDY

No.

HARS

Why then! — (Sits.)

It’s fitting I should rest after heroic battle.

I did it — I, that Zordy is now deputy;

the high nobles are my good friends,

I tease them for the most part; so at one word of mine

they came over — our canvasser follows blindly —

and I carried the victory. — Wine, come on!

GERŐ (to Piroska, who carries wine)

My Piroska, I thought up so many fine things

to tell you — dreaming of you;

I look into your eyes — and forget them all.

All but this: that I love you.

PIROSKA

Ha, ha, ha!

How strange this gentle word sounds from you,

as if a bear should sniff at rosemary.

GERŐ

Piroska! You mock me ceaselessly, and why?

That I do not make verses, like my master,

do not grow pale and lean: for that

heaven knows which of us makes the happier wife!

PIROSKA

It wouldn’t hurt you to slim down, you’d look better.

GERŐ

Girl!

If Zordy longs to thread this word, love,

into iambics, he has much trouble of it; for me

without verse there is more; perhaps he

says it more handsomely, in me it sticks within

and aches.

HARS

Hey, girl!

PIROSKA

Don’t keep me to fasting, I’m in a hurry.

HARS

Wine and dinner, I’ve well deserved it.

With a full throat let me shout it out:

Long live our Lorán, while his dinner is good.

I’ll eat you, lass! Give a kiss to your wine.

PIROSKA

Don’t trouble me, sir.

HARS

Who forbids it, you tempest!

I’ll skewer it on my knife-point.

GERŐ

I do, sir.

HARS

Envious cur! Then I’ll kiss her face clean,

so none is left for you? — Can’t you digest it?

I’ll cure the surfeit in your back.

Devil, hell! (They make ready.)

SZENDRŐDY (attacking Gerő)

You’ve long provoked me, peasant!

GERŐ (knocks him to the ground)

See, the peasant’s hide is tougher still,

cultivation hasn’t tanned it so.

SZENDRŐDY

Oh, woe, my coat is done for, my curls!

Oh, woe, my spine!

GERŐ

Off with you then, you nuisance.

Now us!

HARS

Why — no! — Carry him off, peasant,

we’ll not do battle over this, ha, ha, ha!

Let’s hear Pikó, he’s the wisest among us. —

PIKÓ (surrounded)

This matter is so sacred, surely you don’t doubt it?

And so I won’t go into the particulars.

SEVERAL

It would be a sin to doubt. (They disperse.)

GERŐ

What a fine

invention, to cloak our folly.

BELÉNYI

Pikó, you here!

PIKÓ

I do not know you, sir.

(Secretly.) Hush, Belényi, you’ll undo me

if you bare my soul; from far off

the sky shows blue, up close it’s no color at all.

From a distance, their age made them so great,

Rome’s heroes.

BELÉNYI

Speak then, how

did you become a bright butterfly from a caterpillar; you,

who could not bear the summer, because

the sun rose early, and you hunted the lark

for heralding the dawn.

PIKÓ

Hush and admire.

Once I spoke from interest, for my profit,

at the assembly, and God knows how it fell out:

the whole assembly clapped its palms bloody;

and if not with one heart, still with one lung

it cheered the liberal speech.

Since then, though I never speak again,

or speak in a servile spirit, if that

is more bound up with my interest:

I serve up just a few fine-sounding fripperies

in their sauce, and they are readier

to persuade themselves they have no brains

than to doubt my honor. —

Indeed I must believe: liberty

has fallen for me, and like a coquette has hung

herself on me, while — as is the custom — my friends,

as touts, kept whispering and talking

till they made even me believe

that I worship the coquettish girl.

BELÉNYI

And masked, how do your affairs run?

PIKÓ

Well enough! A few sighs, a sullen face,

a mocking smile at all that is great,

a thought all tasseled, picked up in the street,

little toil for much distinction.

And one can flay the peasant for it too. —

But speak, what do you seek?

BELÉNYI

I came to reap. —

See, isn’t it easier to sit upstream

in a safe boat, than to row

yourself through whirlpool and wave?

This party is the victor, and I with it.

(Lorán and Jenő come in unnoticed.)

HARS

Such disgrace from a girl — stop!

War, battle! Girl, why don’t you hurry?

What service is this, devil, hell!

GERŐ

She somewhat forgets equality.

HARS

Why did she turn draft-horse, let her pull, if she can! —

Let everyone drink for equality. —

SZENDRŐDY

Still, my prodige is worth more?

DÚLHÁZY

Lightning-quick — hotter than Bianka.

SZENDRŐDY

Bianka reminds me of my adventure.

I’ll tell it presently, it’s enormously interesting.

JENŐ (to Lorán)

You hear, my friend: horse, woman, and from fashion

a lofty thought or two, learned by rote,

born in another, better breast,

about the orphan homeland — this is what our young men,

the proud-winged souls, the homeland’s hopes,

can still speak of; and even of these

the homeland is only a riddle learned by rote.

KONDOR

So he is deputy, and I cannot rejoice;

my teachings fell on bad ground,

he forgets our cause’s pale banner

over the ball-finery of some little lady;

or have we already shared out the estate?

Have we punished the few rowdies

who throw our brave men’s bellies into despair,

teasing their noses with the roast?

If only he were here, I’d tell him then,

I would: child! Was it on my own blood

I raised you for this? Fear my curse.

LORÁN

So they understand! Oh, lofty spirits,

inspired by law and justice,

beg for everlasting death as your reward;

for looking back, your hearts will break:

to see your words’ gospel understood like this. —

GERŐ

You drank a soul from Lorán’s wine, and

now you mutiny against your maker!

(Lorán steps out.)

ALL

Long live Zordy, the deputy! — (They lift him up.)

JENŐ

See, if we strive upward, we must sit

on our companions’ necks; — how they rejoice, and

man’s flesh is perhaps heavier than beef.

LORÁN

Kondor, do you have the floor?

KONDOR

That I do, Lorán!

Were my throat but endless,

how I’d sing “long live the worthy one!”

Worthy — worthy, that I find no rhyme.

LORÁN

Never mind!

KONDOR (to Jenő)

For my homeland! (Drinks.)

JENŐ

You’ve come far!

Tell me, Pikó, what do you hold about the tax.

PIKÓ (aside)

If only I knew what liberty commands. —

I — I — ah, so — this matter —

JENŐ

Now I understand you.

PIKÓ (aside)

Thank heaven — I certainly don’t.

JENŐ

Ah, Hars my friend!

HARS

See, his friend, I —

this I’ll tell.

JENŐ

They say that Herédy

gives one dish more — let’s go.

HARS (in a posture of homage)

Pardon, false rumor.

JENŐ

So! — Dúlházy, are you

the famed champion of freedom of faith?

DÚLHÁZY

At your service.

JENŐ

Tell me,

if you did not happen to be among the sufferers,

would you not be a tyrant, a maker of suffering? (Dúlházy stares. — To Lorán.)

What a craven breed — is it for this we fight?

A breed that does not grasp its own vileness,

and, fattening its red cheeks, has no desire.

LORÁN

Why does one man feel for all these scoundrels,

or why is he not dull like them as well!

KONDOR

Check to the king! (Falls asleep.)

SZENDRŐDY

Mate, you old fool!

LORÁN

Check to the king! — Oh, to shout check while drunk

and mock, and then to topple, cravenly,

without a fight. Kondor! Check to your neck too.

Traitor to your country!

(Seizes him by the neck.)

KONDOR (in his stupor)

Pardon — I am

guiltless — youth can be led astray —

I’ll inform on my comrades: Lorán is the head.

LORÁN

To the gallows with you! As a warning,

that he who pledges himself to the defense

of sacred principles must be pure, not like you:

a musty crock that sours everything. —

Today we hold no council — be gone.

BELÉNYI

Why?

LORÁN

Because so I will it.

HARS

Eh, indeed!

GERŐ

Today we hold no council, be gone,

a hundred thunderbolts! I say it, to your nest. (All exit.)

LORÁN (with scorn, gravely)

Rag-souls! Oh, can the people’s liberty then

rouse only hungry dogs

to take the field against property?

And at one pint of water they all run off.

JENŐ

Have you repented?

LORÁN

No.

JENŐ

What will you do?

LORÁN

That I do not know,

but I must do something, my soul demands it so. —

HERÉDY (enters, aside)

Stop, bad man! I’ll teach you. —

Well, and did the work go nicely, fine nephew?

LORÁN

It went.

HERÉDY

Where then are your finished papers?

LORÁN

Oh, listen: (Reads.)

A mourning spirit sits on your sacred ruins,

pale-faced homeland, why do I love you?

I wept for you, and for my comfort

you bore an unearthly-charmed grave-flower:

still dewy and smiling — a dark-haired girl;

a heart you gave me to love her with; words for song,

and to the word, as an inexhaustible flood,

a flame-soul, and the girl pours out your ancient light. —

And why do I love you, girl?

In your breast the homeland, on your lips its speech,

and the dear word so sweet on a lip like yours

as a heavenly harp-note that makes divine:

when, blushing, you whisper that you love. —

HERÉDY

So, so, verses again; soon at the Diet

you can sing out its bad rhymes.

LORÁN

What, bad rhymes? — Ah, you are ignorant!

HERÉDY

Coarse child, your father entrusted you to me,

why do you not fulfill his command.

LORÁN

Because it is so great it does not fit into my life.

JENŐ (aside)

Better to go, there will be battle here. (Exit.)

HERÉDY

You had yourself made deputy with a few

desperate lads, whom you consort with,

despite the soberer part, which you

pursue with immodest mockery,

you long to teach, and you should learn,

you wrangle with the censor, you cobble verses,

which by no means befits a man of government.

Of work there’s no question, you paper-usurper!

LORÁN

No! — Take your government’s ink, your paper,

I did not put my soul up for sale. (Throws it down.)

HERÉDY

Crackbrained child!

LORÁN

Old fool!

HERÉDY

What’s this?

So, fair-haired child, do you treat me thus,

on whose back are already five crosses!

GERŐ

Shall I seize the pen-chewer?

LORÁN

Let him be, Gerő!

A common ass has but one possession.

Do not abuse him, sacred is this fair lock, for

his young soul is still pure, like God,

with whom it was lately still one, and on his cheeks

the parting heavenly kiss still burns,

not worn away through so many bogs

as on yours; you who have sinned so much

against God: that he has turned his face away. —

Or shall I, for the bridle you put on my head,

tear off my face: lest it should smile?

Put out the eye: lest it should weep, and

with it kill the god in my breast,

which loves girl and homeland, that I might win

the rigid, sacred bone-relics’ ornament,

like you, you withered-feeling warriors,

who carry five crosses on your backs:

while every one of you crushed our Redeemer.

HERÉDY

Your father’s command speaks, Lorán, through me.

LORÁN

He is dead, and his grave is holier than your mouth. —

Why did he not kill the soul in its cradle,

and I’d be well in harness even so;

why did he not put out my fancy’s eye;

I’d be able to give thanks that you led me;

but as it is, shall I give up the heavenly vault

for a well-fed brown dungeon? —

Gerő! Carry these rag-writings

to the fire!

HERÉDY

Oh, for God’s sake!

GERŐ (to Herédy)

Come

after them yourself! — Long have I wished

to do this, for ever since they’ve lain here,

you’ve been so glum. — But why did you not let me?

(Exit with the writings, after Herédy.)

LORÁN

I am made deputy, this house is a narrow space for me,

my heart burns to embrace a world.

Jenő, my friend — so, you too? —

PIROSKA (comes weeping)

You are leaving? And what shall we do at home?

LORÁN

Piroska, oh, you weep! I’ll burn

this dew from your rose. — You sly one!

This is no dew, it clings, it burns even here —

and aches, like sorrow.

PIROSKA

God bless you.

LORÁN

Your tear is hotter, but mine is brighter,

in yours past happiness slumbers,

in mine struggle and hope shine forth.

GERŐ (who has returned meanwhile, wipes Piroska’s eye)

I’ll not burn it away — but I’ll wipe it.

ON STAGE AND BEHIND THE CARPET...

FIRST SCENE

(The capital. At the Széphalmis’. A dressing room. Ilka, Jolán.)

JOLÁN

Ha, ha! This state of yours is just

odd; it would amuse me too for two weeks.

ILKA

Jolán! You laugh?

JOLÁN

Forgive me, the greatest

wisdom is that which laughs at everything.

But tell me, would you be ready even for sacrifice?

ILKA

Ready.

JOLÁN

Then I don’t understand you. (Sadly.) Oh, how good it must be

to know that one is loved, that grief and joy

do not sound out in vain, but all are counted,

find a kindred echo. I do not know

what it is, to love or to be loved.

ILKA

And from your mother?

JOLÁN

I saw her by the hour,

my first memory is a beating, when as a child

I rumpled her fine lace;

so my feeling withdrew into itself,

and I grew more selfish than to understand

the passion burning in a Juliet.

ILKA

And your betrothed?

JOLÁN

He only wants to marry,

and it’s most convenient that he court me,

he thinks me a good housekeeper too — that’s his love.

ILKA

And you’ll go?

JOLÁN

I’ll go — they’re all like this — and this one too

gives me a bonnet, saves me from servitude.

ILKA

Ah, then ask no more about my heart’s bitterness,

we two have long since flowed far apart from one source.

JOLÁN (gaily)

Ha, ha! I must take care, for it leads me onto the ice,

and I’d dream the fair life away.

(Széphalmi and the chambermaid enter.)

So I’m well dressed?

SZÉPHALMI

Why so finely?

CHAMBERMAID

Today the young lady is unusually bewitching.

SZÉPHALMI

Hush! Why do you never say this of me?

Or if you say it, why as if your voice

mocked the word with which you praised me?

(To Jolán.) Off with you! When a girl dresses with such splendor,

they say she carries a shop-sign! — Oh, to see her so. —

(Ilka meanwhile departs.)

(More gently.) Take care, my daughter, I see you keep company

with Ilka, not to grow too open.

A friendly word you may speak, as much as needed;

it is holy water, which neither helps nor harms,

it stands in credit and is often a good hook

to coax out many a secret; nonetheless

it does not compel frankness in return.

Complain — and reap mockery; bare your heart — betrayal;

beg — and contempt’s your wage. Be mute,

and you may take them by surprise.

JOLÁN

My tongue is no woman’s tongue henceforth. (Exit.)

SZÉPHALMI

You do not flatter, mirror: order’s strict rule

and self-knowledge gird me round with a halo.

Who stands against the noonday sun?

If only I could learn that light

childish softness; that is hard!

That my movements, unruly,

should yet flow into one sweet whole.

How?

CHAMBERMAID

Magnificently you have learned

the unconstrained natural manner!

SZÉPHALMI

Hah, so!

Then victory, for this is the fragrance, girl,

that the artificial rose still lacks,

which sometimes a witless little girl usurps,

who, treading her unknown charms

clumsily into the sand,

is still adored. With this my daughter too

outshines me, and robs me of the homage

of those who cannot tell true beauty. —

Hah! That you should come to mind again. (With passion.)

Girl! If you are a master of your trade: then

contrive that something on her dress be ugly.

(Bitterly.) Oh, only on her dress! — (Chambermaid exits.)

The girl grows up so fast,

we would more gladly tend her childhood

than have her tempt as an unveiled rival,

than have her shine as a new desire,

whom one may not even avoid. (Rings, a footman comes.)

Take it! (Gives a paper.)

Those written here shall be invited for today. (Footman exits.)

My hall is the gathering-place of every art;

who can show its like! (Herédy enters.)

I greet you, sir!

HERÉDY

Ah, on your face

each day a hundred unfamiliar charms smile.

SZÉPHALMI

Hush, I told you, did I not, that my ear is deaf

to your flattery, until Count Andaházy’s

request is fulfilled.

HERÉDY

Indeed, this

solicitude will make me jealous.

SZÉPHALMI

Oh, woe is me! In vain I sacrificed

my love to an ingrate.

HERÉDY

For God’s sake, this tone destroys me.

SZÉPHALMI

This one request for my friend’s sake,

is it so esteemed? — Do not tell me

again how you adore me, for great heaven

avenges a woman led astray.

HERÉDY

What man is capable of, all I did,

and is this my reward, that I carried it through?

Conditionally, true, but it had to be,

for so they will it up above. Believe me.

So only I, and only for your sake, could do it.

SZÉPHALMI (aside)

An infallible war-stratagem, already he pleads,

because I thunder; like the dog, it runs

from its own filth, if we do not tremble at it. —

Do not believe, sir, you can blind me again

with a promise you’ll never keep.

Or else talk Count Andaházy round

to accept the stated condition.

The wage of good success is love —

else spare me forevermore. (Exit.)

HERÉDY

One moist moment — and I melted;

oh, woman’s caprice! Among the cushions of the divan

you cook up what a son of a later age

will take for a development of principle, a combination.

We are only puppets, who play

on the stage, but behind the carpet

a woman’s hand guides our secret strings. Oh, women!

With what enchantment you bind us,

if you caress us, we already dream of bliss,

and it’s all a hand-kiss-hunt; enchantment —

that we hold up our heads, while you set horns on us.

We men were foully outplayed

even in our Eden, for the fruit

of knowledge and shrewdness Eve ate,

while Adam only choked on the core. —

But why does she so wish to make him happy,

if she proudly thrusts away his happiness? —

Hah, I have it — his wife resents

that the divan is not for her;

and that it shall not be so: the worthy friend

holds, in the homeland’s name, a hunt

for the not-sufficiently-loving count-husband. (Exit.)

(Széphalmi and Andaházy enter.)

SZÉPHALMI

The old fool’s gone, this one’s well amused,

believing everything; he surely has no mirror

to see the baboon-face in it. —

You’ll be lord-lieutenant if you do one thing.

ANDAHÁZY

May I beg to know it!

SZÉPHALMI

I do not know what

deputy our county has. Everywhere

I hear he makes trouble, Zordy is his name;

this crackbrained lad must be recalled.

ANDAHÁZY

This, alas, I cannot do.

The young man is my fellow-believer, his soul is flame.

I’ll renounce the glitter of rank,

but I cannot fight against my principle.

SZÉPHALMI

You’re speaking with a woman, you’re not at the assembly,

where coarse-palmed gallery-heroes

watch for the word from your mouth; I fish it

from your heart before it passes through

the cleansing of your lips. Don’t speak of principle,

a woman doesn’t know it. — I know your suit

with the Zordy house, you want a settlement. —

Don’t fear, you’ll win, Herédy

has already promised. You need money too, I know,

for the contest — I have some;

put up Jenő as the rival,

and if all my fortune, if a country’s peace

be made the sacrifice, let it be, why not?

For you and for the splendor with which homage

and distinction await me at the Diet.

ANDAHÁZY

But Zordy and Jenő are the best of friends.

SZÉPHALMI

Friends? — And have their interests yet

come into collision? — I’ll speak with Jenő. —

ANDAHÁZY

This Zordy’s party is large, and principle binds them to him.

SZÉPHALMI

If it’s principle, it can’t be large; or does he boast

of the principle? Then he can be blinded,

for he chases what he doesn’t understand. But fine,

that a woman should teach you politics. —

Zordy a papist? — See, my son’s a Protestant,

I’ll raise the banner of freedom of faith:

the principle’s already on our side; above it

the faith’s intoxicating party-passion,

which sweeps Zordy’s zealots away from him. —

Many a powerful lord is my debtor; on these

I’ll call in what they owe me, or step into

new bonds; tell me, do you now believe

that we shall win, and though we bring him down,

he’ll hold you his loyal champion, and the opposition

will praise you.

ANDAHÁZY

I marvel at you!

SZÉPHALMI

His wife

he leaves at home; she’s a good, meek housewife —

I’m not used to speaking ill of anyone,

but in the world she’s a little foolish.

Why should spirit dwell in everyone?

What would become of the cabbage, the needle, and the cow.

ANDAHÁZY (gravely)

Your pardon! But let us drop this now.

To hear my wife reviled is forbidden me,

for she’s my wife. — If she must fall, let it be, then —

but I may ask that it be done with respect.

SZÉPHALMI (mockingly)

So, so! The dear little wife perhaps whimpered,

perhaps even chastised you with her slipper?

And Count Andaházy repented and forgot —

for what does it matter if a heart breaks,

a heart that followed so trustingly at one word of his,

forsaking the path of woman’s virtue.

ANDAHÁZY

The angel-face enchants, though damnation

kisses it round — and this moment,

like a ray risen from a storm-night,

is twice as fair, for it is dew and smile.

(Kisses her hand; Jolán enters meanwhile.)

SZÉPHALMI

To your wife I send every fair greeting,

I hope my dearest friend will come.

JOLÁN

The company is gathering already, mother!

SZÉPHALMI

In my headache the count tended me.

ANDAHÁZY

I did the service out of self-interest. (Exit.)

(Váry enters.)

SZÉPHALMI

This fine brooch in your hair, not a word more!

So you must stay, you headstrong little girl.

You come in good time, sir, help me scold —

I have this trouble always with this bad girl,

in vain I get her anything fine

as the dearest — she only lets it mould.

JOLÁN

Ah, my good mother, you are so very gracious.

SZÉPHALMI

What will become of you, tell me — ceaselessly

you want to bustle about the housekeeping,

you don’t even guard your face, you rise so early.

VÁRY

Help to scold? Even were there

cause, I’m too courtly to do it;

there’s still time for that. — I kiss your hand.

(Kisses Széphalmi’s hand and knocks down an ornament.)

Why does it stand in the way. (Laughs.)

SZÉPHALMI (aside)

Craven creature! —

Does nothing! —

VÁRY

See! She’ll have a new keepsake

of me, miss! — This is a good idea. — (They laugh.)

JOLÁN

Shall I even thank you? (Jenő enters.)

SZÉPHALMI

Go on ahead,

I’ll follow at once.

VÁRY (whispering to Széphalmi)

In Jolán too

I adore only you; for your sake

I’ll take her, and if you regard me only

as your son-in-law, you’ll drive me to despair.

SZÉPHALMI (tapping his mouth tenderly)

Flatterer! —

Faith and silence! —

VÁRY

Wait, little bride.

(Goes out ahead; Jolán follows, making a grimace.)

JOLÁN

Why don’t you lead me, then, dear bridegroom? (Exit.)

SZÉPHALMI (to Jenő)

You came in good time; if you have spirit,

you can be deputy in Lorán’s place.

JENŐ

And Lorán?

SZÉPHALMI (drily)

We’ll recall him.

JENŐ (darkly)

This is dreadful, mother.

SZÉPHALMI

That one rises and the other steps down?

JENŐ

Not that.

But that I break my friend’s neck.

SZÉPHALMI (indifferently)

If you hold it so, then keep it to yourself.

There’s much that, viewed from afar, is not bad,

and becomes bad through our connection. If we

bare this, many grow attentive, and

disapproval too spreads boldly. But

if we act wordlessly, decisively,

even one who knows will listen in amazement,

and good success wins all, or strikes all down. —

Besides, what would bind you, friendship perhaps?

Only in schools does the true kind exist,

on the great world’s rough ground it wears away,

like bad enamel, an interest-bearing burden.

Or is he better than you? And if not,

why should the sun set, that the moon might shine?

(With emphasis.) Fate’s reins are once in our hands,

just once — and unstoppably events

drag us on. — Ah, but what

do I grind on for; I see you’d be better

as a friend, telling your beads — while another, sharper,

flies on —

JENŐ

Mother!

SZÉPHALMI

Now would be the time

to win your Ilka too.

JENŐ

I’ll do it.

SZÉPHALMI (gives her hand to be kissed)

You are my son; let Zordy suspect nothing; present me,

let me see whom I must do battle with. (Exit.)

HERÉDY (entering with Andaházy)

Oh, thanks to you in the homeland’s sacred name,

that you took it on.

ANDAHÁZY

Out of my homeland’s interest,

to bind the bond between government and country

more firmly with one loyal heart.

HERÉDY (aside)

To Széphalmi I go for my wage. (Aloud.)

I’ve redeemed your debts, won

your suit; I have the honor to hand all over.

ANDAHÁZY

I trust, by strict right.

HERÉDY

How

else, when it’s we who determine the right

by which we judge. — You here already?

ANDAHÁZY

Your decision?

JENŐ

I’ve persuaded my heart,

and on the homeland’s altar I sacrifice her.

ANDAHÁZY

Great soul! Take, in compensation for the friend,

my daughter. (Aside.) Why, I’ve won the suit. —

JENŐ

Fair moment! — If any doubt still lingered

in my heart, your word’s sun dispersed its cloud. (Herédy and Jenő exit.)

ANDAHÁZY

Ha, ha! Fool, you begged me to accept

my life’s wish: a famous name.

Tell me, Brutus! Why did you sacrifice your life

for immortality, if it’s so

easy to attain? — Perhaps the philistines

were not then in fashion. And why?

Because they had as yet no servile worshippers. —

Jenő! You well know that under your banner

money and private interest fight; you well know

that I know you; say, why do we assail

each other with such gaudy words. Men!

And you do not blush either, under the banner

that has so often given its principle the lie? —

I have no friend, for he who climbs

treads on the necks of many, and their wailing

would dishearten a softening breast.

But I believed friendship was, and it pained me to see

how lightly you cast it off, and your heart didn’t ache,

for you only pinched your own word, to make it grieve.

But away, dark image! Be welcome to me,

our companions’ folly, you heavenly stair! (Exit.)

SECOND SCENE

(The same, a drawing-room. Bianka, Szendrődy, Belényi,

Dúlházy, Kondor, Andaházy, several women and men.)

BIANKA (surrounded by young men)

Marriage is ash for him who has a few

embers, then keep them safe with ash!

But Etna flares up!

SZENDRŐDY

Your love is

only fireworks, that amuses a crowd of people.

BIANKA (stroking him)

Fair youth! Why is your heart so ragged and small

that it cannot hold it — ha, ha, ha!

From such a setting the diamond falls out. (Turns away suddenly.)

This little word “true” and this little word “cool” are kin.

A daughter of Italy does not love thus,

she flares but a moment — but burns to the sky.

She gleams like a dagger, and on its point sits death.

(Enters Széphalmi, surrounded by Váry, Pikó, and other young men.)

PIKÓ

Your hall is the temple of art.

SZÉPHALMI

You flatter — if only I could do as I’d wish.

But I, a poor widow!

ALL

You poor?

When a Croesus is.

SZÉPHALMI

My want of tact

I cannot make up with zeal.

ALL

On the contrary, you can teach taste.

SZÉPHALMI (archly)

In days gone by

with my beauty — but now I’ve grown old.

ALL

You commit high treason against yourself.

KONDOR (handing over a paper, bowing)

Genius of all that’s fair, with this song of mine

I glorified your dead turtledove,

and in it you too. (Széphalmi graciously accepts.)

BIANKA

How good it is that,

patronizing art, we fatten its

priests, and there is still one to thank you

for the alms with bow and homage;

else we’d scarcely cast a coin in its box.

SZÉPHALMI (sitting down)

(To Váry.) I’m not used to speaking ill of anyone, but

it’s only a pity that our good deeds

do not find art and virtue together.

Especially in women. — Where does my daughter stay?

The little housekeeper is so missed by my heart.

BIANKA

Your observation is just, for women who

declaim artfully on love of children —

over their grown-up daughter, console themselves

only with the shared adorers. (Turns away laughing.)

DÚLHÁZY (to Váry)

You are happy to take Széphalmi’s daughter

to wife; the daughter of so virtuous a woman

surely will be virtuous too.

VÁRY

That’s chiefly why I take her, for otherwise,

it’s no use, she’s only noble. — Is this, then,

our great orator Pikó?

BIANKA

Within two weeks

old Cato too will kneel before me. —

Why, there’s not a spark of manhood in you! —

ANDAHÁZY

Then our wager of a hundred gold pieces holds. —

BIANKA

Whoever enters first shall be the sacrifice.

(Lorán, and after him Jenő, enter.)

Who is this?

VÁRY

I don’t know him.

JENŐ

Writer and deputy,

my friend, Zordy. —

BIANKA

Zordon is his name.

We’ll see about his heart. — —

LORÁN

Though I may grieve

that I delayed so long to present

my friend; I forgive him, for

we do not gladly share our Eden.

JENŐ

Why, you’ve barely arrived in our city.

LORÁN

One moment is eternity at the door of our bliss.

SZÉPHALMI

Most gracious.

JENŐ

Come, the ideal of my soul

I’ll make known to the better half of my soul.

LORÁN

And I to you my innocent tormentor.

(They stop before Ilka.)

It is she!

JENŐ

It is she!

LORÁN

Who?

JENŐ

Mine.

LORÁN

Rather, mine.

JENŐ (coldly)

Lorán! We two cannot live together.

SZÉPHALMI

What’s happened?

BIANKA (with fire)

Hah, delight! A duel, perhaps?!

LORÁN (whispering)

Rejoice, my friend, that I, your rival,

am the bridegroom forced upon her.

JENŐ

And can you not love her, tell me?

LORÁN

You may be calm. — I owe thanks

for their curiosity, for I have won.

BIANKA

So it was only a wager!

LORÁN

The whole thing’s a joke! —

VÁRY

I’d hoped there’d be some interesting matter to tell. (Jolán enters.)

LORÁN (to Jenő)

What a charming form! — See, my unknown one.

SZÉPHALMI

Jolán, my daughter!

VÁRY

My little bride.

LORÁN (choking)

Then woe is me!

JENŐ

What ails you, Lorán?

LORÁN

What ails me?

In one instant to find, only to lose,

our soul’s ideal, to know: she is a woman;

dwells on this earth, can love — and —

and loves another; makes another heart happy.

JENŐ

Nothing is lost, she will yet love. (Aside.)

Hail to you, passion! Burn on! Burn on!

You make my Ilka safe.

VÁRY (behind Jolán’s chair)

Well, how do we stand?

JOLÁN

As Luke the Evangelist is painted.

VÁRY (yawning)

I was at the theater for a few moments.

LORÁN

Naturally, empty boxes

mocked the temple of art.

SZÉPHALMI

No matter, they are paid for.

VÁRY

So it is, so,

in cash, to the last farthing.

SZÉPHALMI

You see.

LORÁN

The sadder, then, for thus the higher

circles’ love of homeland is a fashion-article

we throw off with our outworn clothes.

And indifferently we draw across our shoulders

the Muscovite fashion, and our hearts don’t ache,

for the homeland was never grown into us.

JENŐ

The Muscovite officers’ courting would

console our ladies for it too.

LORÁN

Even so I don’t grasp it, I don’t believe

the much-sung woman’s heart could be so debased.

SZÉPHALMI

And see, sir, is it not a fine reward

for art too, that we take its churlish priests

into the circle of our aristocracy. —

(To Bianka.) Oh, God — how she pales, is she ill?

BIANKA

Your solicitude enchants — I’m well.

(Aside.) Wait!

JOLÁN

For our own good; for this churlish art

is the flower-bearing spring of our halls.

A child’s coat is our aristocracy,

which fetters the growing youth

in his free movements; and we keep slitting

its narrowest part, till it falls away entirely.

JOLÁN

Liberty is now the fashion; are you its hero too?

LORÁN

As the persecuted man is; I’d soon

bring you over to our left side too,

for your soul is pure as white paper;

receptive to the holiest imagining;

and what could mirror itself there so faithfully

as nature’s child, “liberty.”

You would cast off your aristocracy’s

defensive ramparts for fair nature;

and over the proud house’s daughter, the woman

born of nature would be victorious.

Liberty and woman are so akin; is not

a woman’s world in any case the left side?

She is a god in it — and is there not there too

equality — liberty? — You blush? — (Sits beside her.)

BIANKA

Such a friendship as yours, Etelke,

toward Zenő, is truly touching

in our age. — Zordy, explain to me why

the best of friends are always rivals?

LORÁN

Why?

BIANKA

One flesh are husband and wife in our Bible,

therefore the man’s beloved

is his wife’s beloved too. But

why do you pale, sir? — Are you ill? — Here, this scent.

(Holds out a vial.)

SZÉPHALMI (aside)

No need, you viper! — A very good idea!

LORÁN

You sit so sweetly musing,

like one in whom holy peace dwells.

JOLÁN

I am always equally merry. —

LORÁN

Not so.

When, at the dawn of her life, a woman

loves, is loved, and a long life

stands smiling before her, made blessed;

for hope in our life is sweetest.

JOLÁN

I hold with the present, and since

I’m content with little, it gives much delight.

I set no single thing as my life’s aim;

I ask no star, only candlelight;

no thousand years, and so am never deceived.

What God gives, I quickly greet farewell

with the whole poetry of the first moment,

without which every pleasure is a bare skeleton,

thanks to the mind’s dissectings.

LORÁN

What is the present? — A breath born of the moment,

which springs from the kiss of past and future,

snaps out, and our past hopes’ romance

slumbers as funeral ash. Oh,

few are the moments worth the living,

for which, across this great life,

we do battle, and the moments too are often

sweet only once they’ve flowed away.

JOLÁN

Ah, you must be very unhappy.

LORÁN

Why, since bliss can be but a moment’s,

not a year’s, and these moments grow

only in dark years.

JOLÁN

And do they

make up for our dark years?

LORÁN

He who plucks the rose, does he think

of the care he tended it with? And if you

with one glance deal me out a life,

I forget a life of suffering.

JOLÁN

You are a poet, your trade is to flatter.

LORÁN

Only do not believe that, for it drives me to despair

of my feelings’ interpreter. Tell me:

what good is flattery spoken to gods?

VÁRY

Why so absorbed, my bride?

Oh, what a fair pair we’ll make; soon

they’ll argue which of us is fairer,

the men defend you, the women me.

JOLÁN

Save me, sir, from this half-witted hero.

VÁRY

Why this coyness, when I’d mean it

seriously. Now men’s market-value

stands sopra pari; and our girls

go, if they’re asked, so how not to me,

who, from rib to rib — excepting my purse,

which suffers no wasting — am a high noble.

LORÁN

There must be a dreadful shortage of men

already, if you’re so in demand.

VÁRY

An insult!

LORÁN

And satisfaction,

if you please, pistols — an easy death.

VÁRY

Hm! Pistols! — I aim well.

LORÁN

But do you hit?

If like your wit, you’re not dangerous.

VÁRY

But the tears — and the murderous conscience.

LORÁN

Then take yourself off!

VÁRY

Hah!

LORÁN

We shoot.

VÁRY

I’m going.

For the joke, that I court the lad-, that is, Jolán,

to her liking — where’s my cane? (Exit.)

JOLÁN (laughing)

An easy victory you had.

LORÁN

Only over Váry!

JOLÁN

Who knows?

LORÁN

Here’s the körmagyar! — If you please. (All exit.)

SZÉPHALMI

Zordy courted Jolán: a worthy

knight, I must capture this one.

And could not two women net

one witless boy? But the other day

I took a step to make him lose his estate,

this I must hinder. — My child, Jolán!

JOLÁN (entering, Bianka at the door)

You command?

SZÉPHALMI

Be all melting toward Lorán,

mark him out, smile into his eyes at times.

If he takes you, you’ll ride in a fine carriage, on fine horses,

a splendid retinue around you; in time

he may rise higher, win a dignity.

And into the bargain he’s full of spirit, and handsome. —

Carry off your many cookbooks from your table,

set poets in their place, and take good care

they not be left with pages uncut. —

JOLÁN

I’ll do just as you’ve ordered,

this Váry’s so unbearable anyway:

he said the other day my arm was thin.

I’ll have a splendid retinue, won’t I.

SZÉPHALMI

But don’t quite thrust Váry off yet either,

press his hand at times between the dances,

whisper sweet things in his ear too,

keep him in the ice-cellar, like beef,

in case there’s need of him.

JOLÁN

How odd it will be

to look right with one eye, left with the other,

to whisper flattery, while to the other

a soft hand-press promises better hope.

A splendid joke! — And to this merriment

the pious face besides! Ha, ha, ha! Worthy!

I have to laugh. (Exit with Széphalmi.)

BIANKA

You’ll weep soon, when I laugh you to scorn!

MASK AND FEELING
(Scene: the capital. At the Andaházys’. A hall, with side doors leading into two
small rooms. In the background a high vaulted arch leads to a splendid ballroom,
from which at the act’s opening a drapery divides it. Music at times.)
(Lorán and Bianka come in through the archway — masked.)

LORÁN (kneeling before Bianka)
How long will an envious night-like veil
cover the life-rays of my sun?

BIANKA (taking off her mask)
Rise, sir!

LORÁN (jumps up)
Hah, betrayal! What is this? —
Pardon — I — ah, I — was mistaken.

BIANKA
And I forgive; will you forgive too
the mistake?

LORÁN
What? — Oh yes — yes.

BIANKA
How confused you are; surely you hoped for another?
A young woman who glitters — ah, but believe,
she is no diamond. I can compensate you,
for the false heart I offer one warm and true,
so full of bliss it makes a god. —

LORÁN (distracted)
Bliss grows; it cannot be made. —
Why is there no window in every woman’s heart.

BIANKA
No, Lorán, no window, for through it
here: love of homeland, lofty woman’s virtue,
fair domesticity, even modesty itself
would sink to an ugly, rote-learned shop-sign,
and woman’s greatness lose its halo. —
There; the happy bridegroom would see four fine horses,
the official, money, and
a retinue, everything but herself,
and his fairest dreams would scatter.

LORÁN
Indeed the world of women would punish him
who bares the secrets of their cunning.

BIANKA
Why then should there be a window? Since in any case
he to whom nature gave its keys
has a glimpse into our breast.
(With fire.) Lorán! I must have your love! And if my word
is not so measured as our lukewarm ladies’,
if it’s sudden, caused by a volcanic fire
that, like a flood, leaps the dam, and the over-refined
world only finds its sacred working coarse.

LORÁN (impatiently)
Of this another time.

BIANKA
Hah!

LORÁN
Your pardon. (Going.)

BIANKA (taking his arm)
You don’t believe, you thrust me off; good, soon enough,
when you look round, and in the great world
find no soul faithful to you but me:
you’ll curse everything, and understand me.
For when he tastes sweet moments,
a young and charming girl’s embrace,
when the coral lip whispers that she loves:
and happiness smiles from her eyes:
his youth seems to stand firm; that
he’s not yet ripe for ruin: do not believe it!
His bliss is not pure; from his imagined Eden
every smile, every word, is according to plan,
not one look makes him happy
that was not learned before the mirror. —
(Mockingly.) Otherwise this is all very fine,
the high school of life’s wisdom:
to lie feeling, holy feeling, with an empty heart.

LORÁN
You lie, woman! — Oh, this cannot be true!
And yet if it is! God, then I disown you,
for in your temple a devil sets up camp.

BIANKA
What a feeble creature man is, how hard
to give up our dear dream-images:
even if we feel, half-drunk,
that our notion’s a delusion — we close our eyes,
lest the dear image dissolve away yet.

LORÁN
No, no, do not believe that cowardice
and unmanly self-deception cause
my doubt. I am ready for anything.

BIANKA
Then give yourself out to Andaházy
as himself, speak with Széphalmi, and
you will be convinced my word is true.

LORÁN
So be it, but woman! Woe, if you’ve lied;
and yet, how gladly I’d forgive. (They go off.)

SZÉPHALMI (comes in by a side door, reading)
What an icy tone, what regular writing,
fire-words enough, but oh, the woman who can
tell apart the speech of lungs and heart.
You cool again, Andaházy? — I’ll warm you. (Writes.)
“Pay me, sir, what you owe.” —
We’ll see if his heart’s a rock, and if a rock,
struck with this ore, it will grow warm. — (Lorán and Jolán enter.)

LORÁN (darkly)
She took off her mask.

JOLÁN
She did.

LORÁN
And, who knows,
does the uninitiated know her now
any better than before; the heart, and above all
the woman’s heart, weaves not under a wax mask
its lures and snares; under another face,
a denser, more charming one, and besides
so lifelike. — Oh, oh!

JOLÁN
What ails you?

LORÁN
You must get used to this; such moments come
upon me often, and their weight of tons so chokes
that in my heart’s vein life stands still:
they call it a demon that comes to torment,
common folk call it feeling.
An evil spirit, and I cannot smoke it out
with the funereal balm of social life. —

SZÉPHALMI (having finished the letter, going)
I think I’m superfluous here.
Laissez nous faire, this is the favorite motto
of tradesmen and lovers. (Exit.)

LORÁN
You give me this garland of flowers?
And if it withers and falls?

JOLÁN
The feeling
that lives in its flowers cannot wither.

LORÁN
May I then interpret its flowers?

JOLÁN
What your heart whispers, in that I agree.

LORÁN
Why should I not doubt the heavens,
if this is a lie!

JOLÁN
You frighten me.

LORÁN
I frighten you? Oh,
a wretched creature is the poet, you see;
his love no common man can reach.
No change of interest puts it out;
it is a wildfire that, if a world’s storm
roars over it, only swells and grows;
prejudice, craven calculation,
propriety do not bound its flight;
it forms a world for itself, like God,
and peoples it with the children of its soul;
it struggles and adores, doubts, sinks down,
conquers anew, and lives through the world’s
every pleasure with every torment.
And when it has fused with the holy ideal,
into one soul that is enough in itself
and perfect, like God, for its love
and longing do not stray beyond their own circle;
if it sees that it fuses with a devil,
and that its life-completer, its half-self,
is matter shrinking down to the craven earth:
seeing this, its bliss collapses,
it wanders between earth and heaven, like a damned
spirit. Its burnt-out breast is an empty house,
in whose ashes only a sign shows that it once burned,
and the moment’s flame made it a mourning ruin.

JOLÁN
Ah, I pity you.

LORÁN
You pity? And why?
You know: such a raging passion
finds no kindred soul in this frozen world? —

JOLÁN
Finds no kindred soul! — This you, to me?

LORÁN
And if a dying old father’s curse
weighed on the poet’s shoulders,
even then?

JOLÁN
Even then.

LORÁN
And if he,
this enviable, this pitiable
vagabond, were only a wanderer,
and all his property in this world
were two arms, an honest heart, and wit, —
even then?

JOLÁN
Even then.

LORÁN
And if this
beggar, and accursed vagabond
were I, even then?

JOLÁN
How dreadful you are.

LORÁN
Even then?

JOLÁN
Oh, woe!

LORÁN
Ha, ha! Your love runs out here already?
Jolán, how shall I still believe in men?
Jolán, even then?

VÁRY (rushes in)
News! Miss... —
But hah, what’s this? — There’ll be a fine story
to tell again.

LORÁN
News? And what? —

VÁRY
Only a joke, no news.

LORÁN
Baron! What you saw
here too was just such a joke,
and so I trust you’ll keep silent.

VÁRY
Most certainly — innocent amusement. —
What a dreadful man! My blood froze.
It’s not very advisable to joke with this one. (Jolán exits with Váry.)

LORÁN
To dance again! — Oh, I was deceived.
No, no, my heart cries for her anew,
and struggles and aches, for it struggles and bleeds;
what’s broken rests on the grave’s floor. —
But thus, with despairing hope,
to fight for every inch of our domain of bliss,
to bleed, only for the whole at last
to perish by slow struggle anyway,
this aches. — A world, then, on this Chaos,
a world, that there be born, be it hell,
be it bliss, no matter, only let the birth-pang
be over: and I’ll have peace. Only a world:
to bare the secrets of the woman’s heart!

BIANKA (entering)
I’ll give you a world, only thank me for it.
(They withdraw; Széphalmi comes in with two ugly women, their masks in their hands.)

SZÉPHALMI
Dear friends! I’ll follow you at once,
at supper I’ll sit among you too. — (The women exit with bows.)
Boast away, if it makes you happy,
of my friendship — out of your ugliness
my charm shines forth, as the sun from standing water.
(Lorán comes forward, masked.)

LORÁN
You don’t know me as Andaházy?
As I see, Zordy is caught.

SZÉPHALMI
I hope
to get the little girl under a bonnet,
she plays it well. I have a word for you.

LORÁN
Oh!

SZÉPHALMI
But they’re coming.
We’ll meet! (Lorán withdraws.)

VÁRY (enters)
News! Zordy has lost
his suit.

SZÉPHALMI
You’re joking, surely?

VÁRY
Not I.

SZÉPHALMI
This is dreadful; is your source reliable too?

VÁRY
I’m sorry to see how my word affects you.

SZÉPHALMI
Only inasmuch as Christian compassion
ran like a shudder down my back.
Otherwise I thought of this long ago.
There, the whole thing’s at an end.

VÁRY
How splendid!
That one of the great world’s beacon-stars
is still shaken by love of mankind! —
She’s still time to spare for such a heavy ague.

SZÉPHALMI
Among other things, did he tell his news
to his bride?

VÁRY
What? My bride?

SZÉPHALMI
Yes, my daughter.

VÁRY
She was, but she was stolen.

SZÉPHALMI
We put her faithfulness to the touchstone.

VÁRY
No.
The girl herself would speak otherwise.

SZÉPHALMI
How would I give her to Zordy, for he’s a Roman. (Exits with Váry.)

LORÁN (comes forward laughing)
What bliss! To set a bonnet on a girl’s head,
how fair! — To be bargained for like merchandise
by family members, and for so little besides!
Or is there no fairer aim set for our life
than to make the girl a wife. Oh,
the man is still better, truly: he too lies
homeland and virtue, but for bread;
and our life is just better than a bonnet,
which is your life’s aim.

BIANKA
Already he rages,
and why? — Truly, if every man
who believed in a woman, and was outplayed by a woman,
had died of it: there’d be no one left
for other maladies to bring to the grave.
Oh, manly defiance! Idol, you whom the coward
adores, see, one feeble woman’s heart
dismasts your ship.

LORÁN
I thought
I was ready even for the worst.
I was wrong; man and world were strongly
grown to my heart, and it aches to tear them off!

BIANKA
He’s lost some vipers.

LORÁN
Fine consolation,
when on the world’s ruin the devil says:
don’t weep, you alone are lord of the world,
there’ll be none to narrow your portion,
your wife and friends won’t be unfaithful.
Fair bliss, from the tears of times wept away.

BIANKA
Let me wipe his tears.

LORÁN
Do not touch me;
oh, sacred is the tear, for it springs from a fair past.
Consolation, suffering not understood,
he who, not feeling with us, lightens it not,
let him respect its mute sufferings,
lest, startled from its mournful refuge,
our soul should see that no one understands it.

BIANKA
From one unworthy I saved you.

LORÁN
And shall I thank you for the natural science
that melted the blue vault, with its thousand stars,
to air, and I should still give thanks;
but out of a wager! That is very Jewish. —

BIANKA
You know this too? I admit it;
but hear me too, and then judge:
while other children smiled, wept, rejoiced
as the moment inspired: I, in a cramped room,
took dancing-lessons with weeping eyes;
often my money-grubbing parents deprived me
of my food if I grew listless. —
Evening came, and in a splendid dress,
flattering up gaiety, I stood on the stage;
and those I amused perhaps did not guess
how much I suffered, only to stay alive. —
I grew up, and many a splendid lord came to me,
the flame-hearted, the innocent girl
believed, and the loveliest pearls of her love
she scattered for the amusement of a few rakes. —
I awoke, and while before the happier woman
man and world stand in poetic light,
before me they were not ashamed to bare
their ugliest shapes; and I, deceived,
robbed of my faith — in a sea of pleasures
I sought compensation. But my pleasures
were a forced warmth: no sun gave them birth. —
You came, and I began to loathe my past,
I saw how bad I am, and unworthy
to live in so great a heart. — You shut me out,
but I, like a sinner at heaven’s door,
will beg, will suffer there
till, taking pity like a god, you let me in. (Exit.)

LORÁN
And now to company — to speak much and empty,
so our talk may seem open, may amuse, and
yet to our heart’s consecrated recess
let there be no key in a single word.
And I don’t yet know well the cramped smile
we bake in the flame of our house,
my heart’s not yet so empty that, doubling,
it gives back anything, that delight,
that grief, it shows just as
propriety brings it with it.
Which a few withered-up fashion-puppets
so decreed. See, these then
are the delights of company,
in which caprice is stretched on the rack
as a mockery of our nature. (Exit.)

SZÉPHALMI (comes in with Jolán)
This moment ends all pretense;
be cold with Lorán, regard Váry
again as your bridegroom.

JOLÁN
Why, mother?

SZÉPHALMI
Know that Zordy is a beggar; do as I command.

JOLÁN
Mother! Had I not learned that there is
no true feeling: I would believe Zordy’s was;
so unlike the others’! — Oh, mother!
I do not regard the long line of my adorers
as a sum to be increased.

SZÉPHALMI
What? A girl’s heart is not so brittle,
and, the stage-world’s hearts excepted,
not many have cracked yet from love’s pain;
or would not Széphalmi’s daughter
forget her outworn love?
Wretched sentimentality! Which we sweat out,
it evaporates, like camphor, if there’s no
pepper beside it, and life’s pepper is money.
Only the closed, the ice-cold heart can shine
without burning to dust. — Why, if you’ve read
a novel, going through its pages,
did you not lay it aside, however it gripped you?
Think this too now; you’ve finished the novel,
and merrily take up another.

JOLÁN
After Shakespeare a German comedy.

SZÉPHALMI
And after all, what have you lost? An adventurer,
a crackbrained poet — for a baron; than whom
one could not even wish a better husband:
he doesn’t torment you with passion, doesn’t spy,
since he doesn’t even want to be spied on! His gossip
and his regular walks always keep him amused,
and if you overspend at dinner, he forgives.

JOLÁN
But I gave my word.

SZÉPHALMI
You gave it to the deputy;
to the vagabond, tell me, why would you keep it?

JOLÁN
Mother, I fear him, I tremble,
like a sinner at the Creator’s footstool,
unable to bear his holy gaze,
with the knowledge of my minute being and sin —
and still more, if I deceive him, he’ll haunt me.

SZÉPHALMI
Hah, disobedient child, I will it.
Wait, let my fist teach you to love. (Jolán exits.)

HERÉDY (comes bowing)
May I beg the promised reward
of my labors?

SZÉPHALMI
What, love perhaps?
Ha, ha! I’d put out these two stars
if they so much as paused on your gray beard.
Fool! Don’t your old bones ache
from bowing before young women? —

HERÉDY
What a dreadful dream this is! Or is it waking,
and did I dream good fortune so long?

SZÉPHALMI
You might make your fortune at a beast-breeder’s,
for you’re a rarity, a horned elephant.
(Herédy exits, Andaházy comes.)
Once before he escaped me — now he won’t get away.

ANDAHÁZY
Madam commands?

SZÉPHALMI
It will be quieter here.
(Goes with Andaházy into a side room. Through the archway come: Jenő, Ilka, Jolán, Lorán, Szendrődy and several others.)

JENŐ
This horse is thoroughbred.

SZENDRŐDY
I know it’s not.

JENŐ
And I’m ready to stand by my word.

LORÁN
Enormous sense of honor. — One of
my writings I’ll recite, if you please.

JOLÁN
Indeed, we beg it.

SEVERAL
Let us hear it.

JENŐ
This may be good.

LORÁN
A mad poetic fancy, but hear it,
and laugh. Friendly, like a man,
Prometheus shared with the gods
the labors of our creation,
and breathed a soul into the breast kneaded from clay. —
They envied his comrade’s deeds,
and chained him to the Caucasus, withholding his wage. —
For they were gods, and their deed
no other god was there to judge.
What think you, Jenő, was this a friendly deed?

JENŐ
Tiger-friendship.

LORÁN
Rather, god-friendship,
what then can it be among men!
But our hero had a brother: Epimetheus,
a valiant Titan! He called them to battle,
and brooding vengeance, stormed up on high,
shook his hall’s pillar of cloud,
and demanded heaven’s diamond keys;
what Zeus could not overcome by hurling lightning,
he longed to win with a woman,
with this Pandora’s chamois-form.
He commanded: let her smile love
on the Titan, and feign a passion
a god cannot feel for an earth-born son. —
What think you, what did the girl do?

JOLÁN
She did not heed the command, but acted
as the god in her breast taught her.

LORÁN
Splendid, splendid!
But if Pandora’s breast was empty?
In how many a woman’s heart does a soul sit enthroned,
and how many a woman yields not to every impulse,
because principle and feeling stand guard in her heart?
But so, since polish had not yet killed
the heaven-given spark in her, —
and yet, and yet, she too acted not thus!
She flattered and smiled, until our deceived
hero renounced his hard-won victory,
bartering every hope for this one,
which, like an evening shadow, seized his being;
and seeing that his single star
shone like a rock-diamond, not like a sun,
that numbs and, like a serpent’s bite,
opens an incurable wound in the heart, (with the greatest fire)
his bliss collapsed. — (Coldly.) No more. —

JOLÁN
Lorán,
how do you mean this?

LORÁN
Not at all, why, it’s a poem. (All exit.)

BIANKA (leading Zenő before the side door)
I’ve caught you, Etelke! The actress
takes her revenge! — Zenő, you stay here.
Till we come back to admire my turtledoves. (Exit.)

SZÉPHALMI (within)
Oh, woman! If there is mercy in your breast!
Woe, after so much sin, do I hope from you?
ZENŐ (opens the door with the key of the other side door)
Now away with your contritions.
The gorged hyena’s tears
do not move me. I wish to guard
woman’s virtue — for the world calls you a woman too —
in you, from mockery.

SZÉPHALMI
If you could do that!

ZENŐ
There’s no fleeing,
for then the whole deceit would come out!
(Goes in, and in her mask Széphalmi appears.)

BIANKA (comes with the company)
Ladies and gentlemen!
For an hour and a half Count Andaházy
has been musing with the worst of women,
and while his dear and spirited wife suffers,
while she furtively wipes away her tears of grief:
he meanwhile keeps company with this seductive, this used-up
courtesan, whom out of pity sin
will any day forsake, for it lacks the strength
not to be able to forsake her. Behold!
(Leads Zenő out of the room and snatches off her mask.)
This woman!

ZENŐ
Before God and the world, his own. — (Laughter.)

BIANKA
What is this?

SZÉPHALMI
Ha, ha! This joke succeeded.

ZENŐ (to Bianka)
Are you sorry you couldn’t help?
A Christian zeal that grieves that
a fellow-creature still has something to gnaw,
because it cannot save her from starving to death.

BIANKA
Fine thanks for my deed!

ZENŐ
Fine deed:
to pass off her revenge as virtue.
And to wish that another should thank her,
when she has done enough for herself. —

SZÉPHALMI
For your friendship I owe you much.

BIANKA
How it is, I don’t understand, but that it isn’t so,
I’d dare to swear.

ANDAHÁZY
I’ll solve it.
You, Bianka, were not mistaken. —
I was poor; splendor, longing, and ill fortune
forced me to do homage to this one here —
who gladly opened her treasures
to buy herself an adorer with them.
Ha, ha! For the adorer does not in vain
go with bleeding feet to holy places,
does not in vain crawl round the altar,
but either the weight of sins presses his soul
or, in good Jewish fashion, he wishes this little labor
paid back to him by the heavens.
(Széphalmi wants to go.)
Stay, sir, I’ll be very brief. —
So with the devotee of holy images; but who,
then, idolizes the devil? I longed for splendor;
on whom this favor hung, this woman adored,
and I had to do homage, that her woman’s pride
might procure me this place.
It was done; though in the papers merits
were mentioned, yet more truly,
for this woman here — is vain, and so willed it —
that my passion-prompted lines
be written by one of higher rank;
other worthy men mouldered away,
for they hadn’t learned to make a bow. —
Many a time I longed to shake off this yoke,
but, like a lioness, she held her prey,
threatened, cursed, begged, implored.

SZÉPHALMI
Hah, betrayal! A lie.

ANDAHÁZY
Patience!
And I had always to see my wife weeping,
even now she sacrificed herself for my sin
and suffers in peace; oh, this life is short
to make up for all her sufferings. (They embrace.)

SZÉPHALMI
Shame on you to trample so basely
on woman’s virtue.

ANDAHÁZY
And was there ever an age
that saw you virtuous?

SZÉPHALMI
Was it for that
I kept my name from stain?

ANDAHÁZY
With name and virtue, young pleasure-girls
and women set out on the path of sin thunder;
you are already too old, you are already too base,
for this to lend you any interest.

SZÉPHALMI
Good, good, there’s still a man here who’ll defend me,
who’ll pledge himself as virtue’s knight:
Herédy!

HERÉDY
I serve with my horns.

SZÉPHALMI
My face is not yet wrinkled, my heart
is still a woman’s heart, that can hatch intrigue,
to make them all weep who now have laughed.
My son, avenge me! (Exit.)

JENŐ
A scratch on the hide,
just for his title — courteously, in measure,
is punishment enough — for the wound to my honor —
for my bride’s father, my lord-lieutenant.

HERÉDY
I came off cheap, thank God!
(Meanwhile all withdraw again into the other hall.)

LORÁN (holding Ilka back)
I have a word for you!

ILKA
And I will hear it.

LORÁN
I know your character — this emboldens me.
We were destined for each other, but to me
instead of home’s bliss an empty hand,
a fettered heart would have been my all,
what I could give the hope-rich woman,
whom, still in passion’s dawn,
a smiling sun’s splendor awaited.
So I could not deceive.

ILKA
Oh, thanks to you!

LORÁN
While the suit lasted, I could not bear
his gaze, and why did I not throw
this bad heart away, into our parents’ bargain?
My suit was lost, and I was at peace. —
But heart-killing disillusion fell on my head;
and he who has once begun to lose,
like a merchant-sailor in the storm,
throws his wares out one after another,
to save what’s left;
until his ship is left empty,
and on his empty ship, with him, is misery. —
My heart is dead, and among my grave-pillars
the specter of misanthropy sits;
I despaired of bliss, of life,
I denied God, virtue, and man.
My only companion is my parents’ curse,
my only gain from my struggling life,
that I’ve learned to weary of life and to die. —
I don’t mind the world’s judgment,
which calls everything bad that it cannot reach.
For one thing only I beg heaven, that you
should understand the faithless man,
who appears only as a specter on your holy dreams,
for the world too, in such a crystal breast,
takes on a nobler hue when it is mirrored.
And another time, if you see a man break
despairing of his fate, oh, do not believe
it’s wickedness; circumstance crushed him.

ILKA
All this you suffered for me; how
can I hope for pardon from you.

LORÁN
You will not deny your blessing
to the accursed one’s care-bowed head,
you will not deny me one kiss
as a talisman for my storm-tossed life,
let them write on my gravestone: in his life
he kissed one woman who was not false,
and among the Judas-kisses one was true. —
This too is much blessing, thank God. —

ILKA
God bless you. (Kisses his forehead.)

LORÁN
Thank you.
BIANKA (thrusting apart the drapery, to the company that flocks up)
Behold!
Look at this pastoral scene! — (Lorán jumps up.)

VÁRY
Miss Jolán is my betrothed, isn’t she.
(Slips a ring on her finger.)

JOLÁN (astonished)
She is. — (With painful scorn.) See, a poet’s love, ha, ha, ha!

JENŐ
False friend! Traitor to your country, stop!
Guards, to seize the traitor! —

LORÁN
Charming Jolán! You did well to teach me
how one can pack serpent, devil,
everything that’s bad, into one word, and say: man.
And you taught me that our whole race
is sin’s microcosm — the girl. — Jenő,
shall I go to prison, then, my good friend? —
Honest Széphalmi! Just now
you wished to fight your good comrade
over a bad horse, this is the penny-pinching
that spends thousands, and even when bankrupt
still has credit, because the world
sees a beggar starve at its door. —
But why, I still have faithful, true friends,
who’ll dare to vouch even for the beggar!
Kondor, you!

KONDOR
My neck itches.

LORÁN
Pikó.

PIKÓ
In such hard times, good counsel rather.

LORÁN
Szendrődy.

SZENDRŐDY
Liberty’s out of fashion now.

HARS
Why do we loiter, when there’s nothing to eat! —

LORÁN
Now I know what it means to love a man:
it’s only the pain of hunger, for the moment
we have something to gnaw, we’d forget it at once. —
Friendship, love of homeland, and love,
fair heavenly geniuses, you all deceived me,
let me see the most earthly daughter of earth!
Well, fair Bianka! I am alone,
does your love’s flame still burn for me?
Follow me to my lair, we’ll embrace
and laugh the lofty virtue to scorn — well, hurry!
To you, good friends, young women,
for farewell, behold, my best kiss.
(Striking out with his fists he hurries off, Bianka follows; confusion.)
(Curtain.)