I want to rise again and go away from here straight, unburdened, and in silence.
Petr (embarrassed).—And I also.
Maya.—Never. You will humble yourself and remain.
Petr.—I cannot.
Maya (with emphasis).—You will humble yourself and remain. You are to-day capable of nothing else but humbleness. If you do not know it to-day you will know it to-morrow, or soon enough. Because you were born for lowliness and resignation—and my path leads another way and to other places. It is giddy—bold—but so narrow that no one can walk alongside of me. I throw down every one who would dare to walk at my side.
Petr.—And even me?
Maya.—You, first of all.
Petr.—Then I will go without you.
Maya.—Where to?
Petr.—After you.
Maya.—You shall not dare it! Before me there are sky-touching peaks, but behind me are chasms and chasms. Behind me there are dead bodies, multitudes of dead bodies of those who, like you, wanted to mate with me. And these who wanted to come with me were stronger than you are. They were free, their feet were not fettered.
Petr.—Nor shall my feet be fettered hereafter.
Maya.—They are and shall, though you may not know it. Do you suppose that I need to remind you of your mother? I need not. And even if she were not, you cannot follow in my paths. Turn back, you fool.
Petr (resolutely).—I don’t believe you. You scorn me for the sake of my old mother, out of sympathy for her naïve love, for the sake of her religious promise.
Maya (with a short, contemptuous smile).—Ach. You childish simpleton. What would your mother mean to me in such a moment, if I wanted you to come with me? What would all her creed, that is to me a strange creed, be to me? What would I care for her happiness, the happiness of a stranger, if I wanted you at my side? Do you think that you were the first or only one? Know it, then, since you must! I lied to you the other day when I said that I only loved once and purely. It was the impulse of the moment. I said it because the moment, that charming moment, amused me. I was thirsty for
