[Sadly.] It was so in spirit and in truth.

IRENE.

Let me tell you, Arnold—­it is for the sake of this child of ours that I have undertaken this long pilgrimage.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

[Suddenly alert.] For the statue’s—–?

IRENE.

Call it what you will.  I call it our child.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

And now you want to see it?  Finished?  In marble, which you always thought so cold? [Eagerly.] You do not know, perhaps, that it is installed in a great museum somewhere—­far out in the world?

IRENE.

I have heard a sort of legend about it.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

And museums were always a horror to you.  You called them grave-vaults—–­

IRENE.

I will make a pilgrimage to the place where my soul and my child’s soul lie buried.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

[Uneasy and alarmed.] You must never see that statue again!  Do you hear, Irene!  I implore you—!  Never, never see it again!

IRENE.

Perhaps you think it would mean death to me a second time?

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

[Clenching his hands together.] Oh, I don’t know what I think.—­But how could I ever imagine that you would fix your mind so immovably on that statue?  You, who went away from me—­before it was completed.

IRENE.

It was completed.  That was why I could go away from you—­and leave you alone.

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

[Sits with his elbows upon his knees, rocking his head from side to side, with his hands before his eyes.] It was not what it afterwards became.

IRENE.

[Quietly but quick as lightning, half-unsheathes a narrow-bladed sharp knife which she carried in her breast, and asks in a hoarse whisper.] Arnold—­have you done any evil to our child?

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

[Evasively.] Any evil?—­How can I be sure what you would call it?

IRENE.

[Breathless.] Tell me at once:  what have you done to the child?

PROFESSOR RUBEK.

I will tell you, if you will sit and listen quietly to what I say.