The Prophet is good! The Prophet is grieving For the ill that the sons of the dust have wrought! The Prophet is mild; to his mildness be praises; He opens to sinners his Paradise! PEER. [_His eyes following ANITRA during the dance._] Legs as nimble as drumsticks flitting. She’s a dainty morsel indeed, that wench! It’s true she has somewhat extravagant contours,— Not quite in accord with the norms of beauty. But what is beauty? A mere convention,— A coin made current by time and place. And just the extravagant seems most attractive When one of the normal has drunk one’s fill. In the law-bound one misses all intoxication. Either plump to excess or excessively lean; Either parlously young or portentously old;— The medium is mawkish.— Her feet—they are not altogether clean; No more are her arms; in especial one of them. But that is at bottom no drawback at all. I should rather call it a qualification— Anitra, come listen! ANITRA. [_Approaching_] Thy handmaiden hears! PEER. You are tempting, my daughter! The Prophet is touched. If you don’t believe me, then hear the proof;— I’ll make you a Houri in Paradise! ANITRA. Impossible, Lord! PEER. What? You think I am jesting? I’m in sober earnest, as true as I live! ANITRA. But I haven’t a soul. PEER. Then of course you must get one! ANITRA. How, Lord? PEER. Just leave me alone for that;— I shall look after your education. No soul? Why, truly you’re not over bright, As the saying goes. I’ve observed it with pain. But pooh! for a soul you can always find room. Come here! let me measure your brain-pan, child.— There is room, there is room, I was sure there was. It’s true you never will penetrate Very deep; to a _large_ soul you’ll scarcely attain;—— But never you mind; it won’t matter a bit;— You’ll have plenty to carry you through with credit—— ANITRA. The Prophet is gracious—— PEER. You hesitate? Speak! ANITRA. But I’d rather—— PEER. Say on; don’t waste time about it! ANITRA. I don’t care so much about having a soul;— Give me rather—— PEER. What, child?