Armgart: Scene IV, Two Hours Later

WALPURGA. Armgart, dear Armgart (kneeling and taking her hands), only speak to me,Your poor Walpurga. Oh, your hands are cold.Clasp mine, and warm them! I will kiss them warm.

DOCTOR. News! stirring news to-day! wonders come thick—

ARMGART. (starting up at the first sound of his voice, and speaking vehemently) Yes, thick, thick, thick! and you have murdered it!Murdered my voice—poisoned the soul in me,And kept me living.You never told me that your cruel curesWere clogging films—a mouldy, dead'ning blight—A lava-mud to crust and bury me,Yet hold me living in a deep, deep tomb,Crying unheard forever! Oh, your curesAre devil's triumphs: you can rob, maim, slay,And keep a hell on the other side your cureWhere you can see your victim quiveringBetween the teeth of torture—see a soulMade keen by loss—all anguish with a goodOnce known and gone! (Turns and sinks back on her chair.)O misery, misery!You might have killed me, might have let me sleepAfter my happy day, and wake—not here!In some new unremembered world,—not here,Where all is faded, flat—a feast broke off—Banners all meaningless—exulting wordsDull, dull—a drum that lingers in the air,Beating to melody which no man hears.

DOCTOR. (after a moment's silence) A sudden check has shaken you, poor child!All things seem livid, tottering to your sense.From inward tumult. Stricken by a threat,You see your terrors only. Tell me, Leo:'Tis not such utter loss.The freshest bloom,Merely, has left the fruit; the fruit itself . . .

ARMGART. Is ruined, withered, is a thing to hideAway from scorn or pity. Oh, you standAnd look compassionate now, but when Death cameWith mercy in his hands, you hindered him.I did not choose to live and have your pity.You never told me, never gave me choiceTo die a singer, lightning-struck, unmaimed,Or live what you would make me with your cures—A self accursed with consciousness of change,A mind that lives in nought but members lopped,A power turned to pain—as meaninglessAs letters fallen asunder that once madeA Hymn of rapture. Oh, I had meaning once,Like day and sweetest air. What am I now?The millionth woman in superfluous herds.Why should I be, do, think? 'Tis thistle-seed,That grows and grows to feed the rubbish-heap,Leave me alone!

DOCTOR. Well, I will come again;Send for me when you will, though but to rate me.That is medicinal—a letting blood.

ARMGART. Oh, there is one physician, only one,Who cures and never spoils. Him I shall send for;He comes readily.

DOCTOR. (to WALPURGA) One word, dear Fräulein.