Exiles

nervously and leans across toward Robert. I may be silent still. And she may yield to you at last⁠—wholly and many times. Robert Draws back at once. My dear Richard, my dear friend, I swear to you I could not make you suffer. Richard Continuing. You may then know in soul and body, in a hundred forms, and ever restlessly, what some old theologian, Duns Scotus, I think, called a death of the spirit. Robert Eagerly. A death. No; its affirmation! A death! The supreme instant of life from which all coming life proceeds, the eternal law of nature herself. Richard And that other law of nature, as you call it: change. How will it be when you turn against her and against me; when her beauty, or what seems so to you now, wearies you and my affection for you seems false and odious? Robert That will never be. Never. Richard And you turn even against yourself for having known me or trafficked with us both? Robert Gravely. It will never be like that, Richard. Be sure of that. Richard Contemptuously. I care very little whether it is or not because there is something I fear much more. Robert Shakes his head. You fear? I disbelieve you, Richard. Since we were boys together I have followed your mind. You do not know what moral fear is. Richard Lays his hand on his arm. Listen. She is dead. She lies on my bed. I look at her body which I betrayed⁠—grossly and many times. And loved, too, and wept over. And I know that her body was always my loyal slave. To me, to me only she gave⁠ ⁠… He breaks off and turns aside, unable to speak. Robert Softly. Do not suffer, Richard. There is no need. She is loyal to you, body and soul. Why do you fear? Richard Turns towards him, almost fiercely. Not that fear. But that I will reproach myself then for having taken all for myself because I would not suffer her to give to another what was hers and not mine to give, because I accepted from her her loyalty and made her life poorer in love. That is my fear. That I stand between her and any moments of life that should be hers, between her and you, between her and anyone, between her and anything. I will not do it. I cannot and I will not. I dare not. He leans back in his chair breathless, with shining eyes. Robert rises quietly, and stands behind his chair. Robert Look here, Richard. We have said all there is to be said. Let the past be past. Richard Quickly and harshly. Wait. One thing more. For you, too, must know me as I am⁠—now. Robert More? Is there more? Richard I told you that when I saw your eyes this afternoon I felt sad. Your humility and confusion, I felt, united you to me in brotherhood. He turns half round towards him. At that moment I felt our whole life together in the past, and I longed to put my arm around your neck. Robert Deeply and suddenly touched. It is noble of you, Richard, to forgive me like this. Richard Struggling with himself. I told you that I wished you not to do anything false and secret against me⁠—against our friendship, against her; not to steal her from me craftily, secretly, meanly⁠—in the dark, in the night⁠—you, Robert, my friend. Robert I know. And it was noble of you. Richard Looks up at him with a steady gaze. No. Not noble. Ignoble. Robert Makes an involuntary gesture. How? Why? Richard Looks away again: in a lower voice. That is what I must tell you too. Because in the very core of my ignoble heart I longed to be betrayed by you and by her⁠—in the dark, in the night⁠—secretly, meanly, craftily. By you, my best friend, and by her. I longed for that passionately and ignobly, to be dishonoured forever in love and in lust, to be⁠ ⁠… Robert Bending down, places his hands over Richard’s mouth. Enough. Enough. He takes his hands away. But no. Go on. Richard To be forever a shameful creature and to build up my soul again out of the ruins of its shame. Robert And that is why you wished that she⁠ ⁠… Richard With calm. She has spoken always of her innocence, as I have spoken always of my guilt, humbling me. Robert From pride, then? Richard From pride and from ignoble longing. And from a motive deeper still. Robert With decision. I understand you. He returns to his place and begins to speak at once, drawing his chair closer. Robert May it not be that we are here and now in the presence of a moment which will free us both⁠—me as well as you⁠—from the last bonds of what is called morality. My friendship for you has laid bonds on me. Richard Light bonds, apparently. Robert I acted in the dark, secretly. I will do so no longer. Have you the courage to allow me to act freely? Richard A duel⁠—between us? Robert With growing excitement. A battle of both our souls, different as they are, against all that is false in them and in the world. A battle of your soul against the spectre of fidelity, of mine against the spectre of friendship. All life is a conquest, the victory of human passion over the commandments of cowardice. Will you, Richard? Have you the courage? Even if it shatters to atoms the friendship between us, even if it breaks up forever the last illusion in your own life? There was an eternity before we were born: another will come after we are dead. The blinding instant of passion alone⁠—passion, free, unashamed, irresistible⁠—that is the only gate by which we can escape from the misery of what slaves call life. Is not this the language of your own youth that I heard so often from you in this very place where we are sitting now?