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Page 73
STRANGER. That was foolish!
WOMAN. I thought so, too, but he said the days liberation were at
hand, when all chains would he struck off, all barriers thrown
down, and ...
STRANGER (tortured). And then ...?
WOMAN. Then he left me.
STRANGER. He was a scoundrel. (He drinks.)
WOMAN (looking at him.) You think so?
STRANGER. Yes. He must have been.
WOMAN. Now you're so intolerant.
STRANGER (drinking). Am I?
WOMAN. Don't drink so much; I want to see you far above me,
otherwise you can't raise me up.
STRANGER. What illusions you must have! Childish! I lift you up! I
who am down below. Yet I'm not; it's not I who sit here, for I'm
dead. I know that my soul's far away, far, far away. ... (He stares
in front of him with an absent-minded air) ... where a great lake
lies in the sunshine like molten gold; where roses blossom on the
wall amongst the vines; where a white cot stands under the acacias.
But the child's asleep and the mother's sitting beside the cot
doing crochet work. There's a long, long strip coming from her
mouth and on the strip is written ... wait ... 'Blessed are the
sorrowful, for they shall be comforted.' But that's not so, really.
I shall never be comforted. Tell me, isn't there thunder in the
air, it's so close, so hot?
WOMAN (looking out of the window). No. I can see no clouds out
there. ...
STRANGER. Strange ... that's lightning.
WOMAN. No. You're wrong.
STRANGER. One, two, three, four, five ... now the thunder must
come! But it doesn't. I've never been frightened of a thunderstorm
until to-day--I mean, until to-night. But is it day or night?
WOMAN. My dear, it's night.
STRANGER. Yes. It _is_ night.
(The DOCTOR has come in during this scene and has sat down behind
the STRANGER, without having been seen by him.)
WAITRESS. Don't speak so loud, there's a sick person in here.
STRANGER (to the WOMAN). Give me your hand.
WOMAN (wiping it on her apron). Oh, why?
STRANGER. You've a lovely white hand. But ... look at mine. It's
black. Can't you see it's black?
WOMAN. Yes. So it is!
STRANGER. Blackened already, perhaps even rotten? I must see if my
heart's stopped. (He puts his hand to his heart.) Yes. It has! So
I'm dead, and I know when I died. Strange, to be dead, and yet to
be going about. But where am I? Are all these people dead, too?
They look as if they'd risen from the sewers of the town, or as if
they'd come from prison, poorhouse or lock hospital. They're
workers of the night, suffering, groaning, cursing, quarrelling,
torturing one another, dishonouring one another, envying one
another, as if they possessed anything worthy of envy! The fire of
sleep courses through their veins, their tongues cleave to their
palates, grown dry through cursing; and then they put out the blaze
with water, with fire-water, that engenders fresh thirst. With
fire-water, that itself burns with a blue flame and consumes the
soul like a prairie fire, that leaves nothing behind it but red
sand. (He drinks.) Set fire to it. Put it out again. Set fire to
it. Put it out again! But what you can't burn up--unluckily--is the
memory of what's past. How can that memory be burned to ashes?
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