The Little Dream | Page 5

aching.
LAMOND. For the moon?
SEELCHEN. Yes. [Then suddenly] From the big world you will remember?
LAMOND. [Taking her hand] There is nothing in the big world so sweet as this.
SEELCHEN. [Wisely] But there is the big world itself.
LAMOND. May I kiss you, for good-night?
She puts her face forward; and he kisses her cheek, and, suddenly, her lips. Then as she draws away.
LAMOND. I am sorry, little soul.
SEELCHEN. That's all right!
LAMOND. [Taking the candle] Dream well! Goodnight!
SEELCHEN. [Softly] Good-night!
FELSMAN. [Coming in from the air, and eyeing them] It is cold--it will be fine.
LAMOND still looking back goes up the stairs; and FELSMAN waits for him to pass.
SEELCHEN. [From the window seat] It was hard for him here. I thought.
He goes up to her, stays a moment looking down then bends and kisses her hungrily.
SEELCHEN. Art thou angry?
He does not answer, but turning out the lamp, goes into an inner room.
SEELCHEN sits gazing through the window at the peaks bathed in full moonlight. Then, drawing the blankets about her, she snuggles doom on the window seat.
SEELCHEN. [In a sleepy voice] They kissed me--both. [She sleeps]
The scene falls quite dark

SCENE II
The scene is slowly illumined as by dawn. SEELCHEN is still lying on the window seat. She sits up, freeing her face and hands from the blankets, changing the swathings of deep sleep for the filmy coverings of a dream. The wall of the hut has vanished; there is nothing between her and the three mountains veiled in mist, save a through of darkness. There, as the peaks of the mountains brighten, they are seen to have great faces.
SEELCHEN. Oh! They have faces!
The face of THE WINE HORN is the profile of a beardless youth. The face of THE COW HORN is that of a mountain shepherd. solemn, and broom, with fierce black eyes, and a black beard. Between them THE GREAT HORN, whose hair is of snow, has a high. beardless visage, as of carved bronze, like a male sphinx, serene, without cruelty. Far down below the faces of the peaks. above the trough of darkness, are peeping out the four little heads of the flowers of EDELWEISS, and GENTIAN, MOUNTAIN DANDELION, and ALPENROSE; on their heads are crowns made of their several flowers, all powdered with dewdrops; and when THE FLOWERS lift their child-faces little tinkling bells ring.
All around the peaks there is nothing but blue sky.
EDELWEISS. [In a tiny voice] Would you? Would you? Would you? Ah! ha!
GENTIAN, M. DANDELION, ALPENROSE [With their bells ranging enviously] Oo-oo-oo!
From behind the Cow HORN are heard the voices of COWBELLS and MOUNTAIN AIR:
"Clinkel-clink! Clinkel-clink!" "Mountain air! Mountain air!"
From behind THE WINE HORN rise the rival voices Of VIEW OF ITALY, FLUME OF STEAM, and THINGS IN BOOKS:
"I am Italy! Italy!"
"See me--steam in the distance!"
"O remember the things in books!"
And all call out together, very softly, with THE FLOWERS ringing their bells. Then far away like an echo comes a sighing:
"Mountain air! Mountain air!"
And suddenly the Peak of THE COW HORN speaks in a voice as of one unaccustomed.
THE COW HORN. Amongst kine and my black-brown sheep I Live; I am silence, and monotony; I am the solemn hills. I am fierceness, and the mountain wind; clean pasture, and wild rest. Look in my eyes. love me alone!
SEELCHEN. [Breathless] The Cow Horn! He is speaking for Felsman and the mountains. It is the half of my heart!
THE FLOWERS laugh happily.
THE COW HORN. I stalk the eternal hills--I drink the mountain snows. My eyes are the colour of burned wine; in them lives melancholy. The lowing of the kine, the wind, the sound of falling rocks, the running of the torrents; no other talk know I. Thoughts simple, and blood hot, strength huge--the cloak of gravity.
SEELCHEN. Yes. yes! I want him. He is strong!
The voices of COWBELLS and MOUNTAIN AIR cry out together:
"Clinkel-clink! Clinkel-clink!"
"Mountain air! Mountain air!"
THE COW HORN. Little soul! Hold to me! Love me! Live with me under the stars!
SEELCHEN. [Below her breath] I am afraid.
And suddenly the Peak of THE WINE HORN speaks in a youth's voice.
THE WINE HORN. I am the will o' the wisp that dances thro' the streets; I am the cooing dove of Towns, from the plane trees and the chestnuts' shade. From day to day all changes, where I burn my incense to my thousand little gods. In white palaces I dwell, and passionate dark alleys. The life of men in crowds is mine--of lamplight in the streets at dawn. [Softly] I have a thousand loves. and never one too long; for I am nimbler than your heifers playing in the sunshine.
THE FLOWERS, ringing in alarm, cry:
"We know them!"
THE WINE HORN. I hear the rustlings of the birth and death of pleasure; and the rattling of swift wheels. I hear the hungry oaths of men; and love kisses in