Plays by August Strindberg, Second series by August Strindberg
page 41 of 327 (12%)
page 41 of 327 (12%)
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HENRIETTE. [Kneeling] Hail to the King!
MAURICE. [Rising] No, now you scare me. HENRIETTE. You timid man! You of little faith who are afraid of fortune even! Who robbed you of your self-assurance and turned you into a dwarf? MAURICE. A dwarf? Yes, you are right. I am not working up in the clouds, like a giant, with crashing and roaring, but I forge my weapons deep down in the silent heart of the mountain. You think that my modesty shrinks before the victor's wreath. On the contrary, I despise it: it is not enough for me. You think I am afraid of that ghost with its jealous green eyes which sits over there and keeps watch on my feelings--the strength of which you don't suspect. Away, ghost! [He brushes the third, untouched glass off the table] Away with you, you superfluous third person--you absent one who has lost your rights, if you ever had any. You stayed away from the field of battle because you knew yourself already beaten. As I crush this glass under my foot, so I will crush the image of yourself which you have reared in a temple no longer yours. HENRIETTE. Good! That's the way! Well spoken, my hero! MAURICE. Now I have sacrificed my best friend, my most faithful helper, on your altar, Astarte! Are you satisfied? HENRIETTE. Astarte is a pretty name, and I'll keep it--I think you love me, Maurice. |
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