THE MAN. I know not what you mean, Mary! WIFE. Listen, Henry! After you left me, a great change came upon my spirit, and I felt what was wanting to make you love me. I cried to God unceasingly; I struck my breast; I placed a blessed candle on my bosom; I did penance; I said: 'Lord God be merciful unto me! Oh send down upon me the spirit of Poetry, that I may be loved!' And on the third day I was a Poet! THE MAN. Mary! WIFE. You will no more despise me; no longer leave me to my lonely evenings; for I am full of inspiration, a Poet, Henry! THE MAN. Never! never! WIFE. Look upon me! have I not grown like yourself? I understand everything now; I can explain and describe all that is: I chant the sea, the stars, the clouds, battles--yes, stars--seas--storms--but battles? No, I have never seen a battle. You must take me to see a battle, Henry. I must watch men die! I must see and describe a corpse--a shroud--the night dew--the moon--a cradle--a coffin: Endless space will spread around me, I will seek the farthest star, Cleaving swift the air around me, Searching beauty near and far. Like an eagle onward cleaving, All the Past behind me leaving, Chaos dark around me lying, Through its dimness lightly flying, Through its infinite abysses, On through darker worlds than this is, Farther--farther--ringing--ringing-- Sounds the curse my soul is singing.... THE MAN. Horrible! horrible! WIFE (_throwing her arms round him, and resting her head on his bosom_). My Henry! my Henry! I am so, so happy! VOICE (_from below_). I have murdered three kings with my own hand; ten are still left for the block: a hundred priests still sing mass-- VOICE (_from the left_). The sun has lost the half of its glory; its light is dying; the stars have lost their way, and hurtle each other from their paths--woe! woe! THE MAN. The Day of Judgment has already come upon me! WIFE. Do not look so sad, Henry. Cheer up, you make me again unhappy! What is the matter? I can tell you something will make you so glad. THE MAN. Tell me what it is. I will do everything you wish me to do, WIFE. Listen! _Your son will be a Poet!_ THE MAN. What are you saying, Mary? WIFE. The priest, when he baptized him, gave him _first_ the name: Poet; and then: George Stanislaus. It is I who have done this; first I blessed him--then I affixed a curse to the blessing: I know he will be a Poet! VOICE (_from above_). Father, forgive them; they know not what they do! WIFE. There is some one above us, suffering from strange and incurable madness; is it not so? THE MAN. Very strange. WIFE. He does not know what he is saying; but I can tell you how it would all be if God should go mad. She seizes him by the hand. All the worlds would go flying about, up and down, and crash against one another: every worm would cry out: 'I am God!' and then some of them would die every moment; they would all perish one after the other!