What shall I repeat in my silence, "I shall find strength, I shall make the effort...." Ah, where shall I look? Where shall I go? The skies are like iron and I remain here, the woman's legacy, full of vague menaces and anguished cries. --What is there left in life? I have travelled. I have seen the world. O worthless calendar of petty days! Though the members of my body Should bristle as thick as fir saplings upon a mountain side, For what would I employ that multitude? The woman I loved is no more! And yet... When she was sleeping yesterday, I went out Knowing that the next day I should be alone. It was night and my heart was heavier than a suspended stone. But, as I walked to and fro, slowly there came to me A sense of the living force within my soul, the vital essence, That does not enter into marriage, nor pass through the gates of birth, The secret purpose of my being. CÉBÈS: O that I also might... But no one has ever bothered about me. SIMON: What did you say? CÉBÈS: I could tell you... I could lament in such a fashion that you would comprehend.... SIMON: Some woman already...? CÉBÈS: No. SIMON: Indeed the desire For this being who has the face of a child Is strange. I do not believe in their laughter. Age makes them fat like fowls. But to slip away thus like a handful of sand that runs through the fingers... Pah! These fancies! Perhaps some day you will understand. _(They come to the road._ CÉBÈS: Who is that? (_aside_) It is her father. _(An old man, bent almost double, enters, trundling a wheelbarrow on which is a basket and a hoe._ SIMON (_aside_): Speak to him. CÉBÈS (_to the peasant_): Good evening. _(THE PEASANT stops and sets down the wheelbarrow._ _(Silence._ How are things going to-day? THE PEASANT: Eh, I don't know. I think it can't be more than five o'clock. The days don't get much longer. SIMON (_shouting in his ear_): And how is your daughter? THE PEASANT: I don't know. She is not with me any more. SIMON: Perhaps she is better off than you are, eh? THE PEASANT: Ah! She might help me out a bit then. 'Tis a bad business, surely! Good-night to you, masters. _(He goes out. They remain silent for a moment._ CÉBÈS (_pointing up the road_): That way lies the village. You must spend the night with me. SIMON: No, my road lies yonder. There is now no place to receive me. I will not lodge in the house of another. I have no other wealth than these old clothes. But I shall stretch myself on a stone and be content. I myself am my table and my bed. I shall not die, but live! I shall not die, but live! I wish not to die, but to live! For I am not alone. CÉBÈS: Who is with you? SIMON: The voice of my living soul! I have heard men mourn their misfortunes, but what misfortune can there be? None. --It grows dark. CÉBÈS: It is night. SIMON: Watch the road and speak more softly. The dry brambles shiver; the branches creak or sway without a sound; the brooks gurgle among the reeds.