noiselessly.] That design expresses the life you now see,
Arnold.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

Yes, I suppose it does.

IRENE.

And in that design you have shifted me back, a little toned down--to
serve as a background-figure--in a group.

[She draws the knife.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

Not a background-figure. Let us say, at most, a figure not quite in the
foreground--or something of that sort.

IRENE.

[Whispers hoarsely.] There you uttered your own doom.

[On the point of striking.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

[Turns and looks up at her.] Doom?

IRENE.

[Hastily hides the knife, and says as though choked with agony.] My
whole soul--you and I--we, we, we and our child were in that solitary
figure.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

[Eagerly, taking off his hat and drying the drops of sweat upon his
brow.] Yes, but let me tell you, too, how I have placed myself in the
group. In front, beside a fountain--as it were here--sits a man weighed
down with guilt, who cannot quite free himself from the earth-crust.
I call him remorse for a forfeited life. He sits there and dips his
fingers in the purling stream--to wash them clean--and he is gnawed and
tortured by the thought that never, never will he succeed. Never in all
eternity will he attain to freedom and the new life. He will remain for
ever prisoned in his hell.

IRENE.

[Hardly and coldly.] Poet!

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

Why poet?

IRENE.

Because you are nerveless and sluggish and full of forgiveness for
all the sins of your life, in thought and in act. You have killed
my soul--so you model yourself in remorse, and self-accusation, and
penance--[Smiling.] --and with that you think your account is cleared.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

[Defiantly.] I am an artist, Irene. And I take no shame to myself for
the frailties that perhaps cling to me. For I was born to be an artist,
you see. And, do what I may, I shall never be anything else.

IRENE.

[Looks at him with a lurking evil smile, and says gently and softly.]
You are a poet, Arnold. [Softly strokes his hair.] You dear, great,
middle-aged child,--is it possible that you cannot see that!

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

[Annoyed.] Why do you keep on calling me a poet?

IRENE.

[With malign eyes.] Because there is something apologetic in the word,
my friend. Something that suggests forgiveness of sins--and spreads
a cloak over all frailty. [With a sudden change of tone.] But I was a
human being--then! And I, t