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Page 85
(The fourth raft is filled with older men and women. The flag has a
representation of a fir-tree under snow.)
See, how bless�d is the man,
Ecce sic benedicetur homo,
Who feareth the Lord,
Qui timet Dominum!
(The raft glides by.)
STRANGER. What were they singing?
CONFESSOR. A pilgrim's song.
STRANGER. Who wrote it?
CONFESSOR. A royal person.
STRANGER. Here? What was his name? Has he written anything else?
CONFESSOR. About fifty songs; he was called David, the son of
Isaiah! But he didn't always write psalms. When he was young, he
did other things. Yes. Such things will happen!
STRANGER. Can we go on now?
CONFESSOR. In a moment. I've something to say to you first.
STRANGER. Speak.
CONFESSOR. Good. But don't be either sad or angry.
STRANGER. Certainly not.
CONFESSOR. Here, you see, on this bank, you're a well-known--let's
say famous--person; but over there, on the other, you'll be quite
unknown to the brothers. Nothing more, in fact, than an ordinary
simple man.
STRANGER. Oh! Don't they read in the monastery?
CONFESSOR. Nothing light; only serious books.
STRANGER. They take in papers, I suppose?
CONFESSOR. Not the kind that write about you!
STRANGER. Then on the other side of this river my life-work doesn't
exist?
CONFESSOR. What work?
STRANGER. I see. Very well. Can't we cross now?
CONFESSOR. In a minute. Is there no one you'd like to take leave of?
STRANGER (after a pause.) Yes. But it's beyond the bounds of
possibility.
CONFESSOR. Have you ever seen anything impossible?
STRANGER. Not really, since I've seen my own destiny.
CONFESSOR. Well, who is it you'd like to meet?
STRANGER. I had a daughter once; I called her Sylvia, because she
sang all day long like a wren. It's some years since I saw her; she
must be a girl of sixteen now. But I'm afraid if I were to meet
her, life would regain its value for me.
CONFESSOR. You fear nothing else?
STRANGER. What do you mean?
CONFESSOR. That she may have changed!
STRANGER. She could only have changed for the better.
CONFESSOR. Are you sure?
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