LITMIR.BIZ

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      And he hath given unto thee the power

      To follow me into the spirit-spheres.

      (Benedictus appears.)

      Benedictus:

      Ye here have found yourselves in spirit-realms

      And so it is permitted unto me

      To stand once more beside you in these realms.

      I could confer the power that urged you here,

      But I could not conduct you here myself.

      Thus read the law, which I must needs obey:—

      Ye must through your own selves first gain the eye

      Of spirit, which doth here make visible

      My spirit to you. Ye have just begun

      E’en now the path of spirit-pilgrimage.

      Henceforth indeed upon the plane of sense

      Endowed with novel powers shall ye both stand,

      And with the spirit in your hearts unsealed

      The cause of human progress shall ye serve,

      For Fate itself hath so united you,

      That ye together may unfold the powers

      Which needs must serve divine creative work.

      And as ye journey on the path of souls

      Wisdom herself will teach you that the heights

      May only be obtained by souls of men,

      Who have gained spirit-certainty, when they

      Unite in faith to do salvation’s work.

      My spirit-guidance hath united you

      To realize each other: now do ye

      Unite yourselves to do the spirit’s work.

      May powers that dwell within this realm confer

      On you through these my lips this Word of strength:—

      ‘The weaving essence of the light streams forth

      From man to man to fill all worlds with truth.

      The grace of love spreads warmth from soul to soul

      To work out bliss eternal for all worlds.

      And spirit-messengers come forth to wed

      Man’s works of love and grace to cosmic aims.

      And when a man who dwells amongst mankind

      Can wed these twain, there doth stream forth on earth

      True spirit-light from his warm loving soul.’

       Curtain

      Interlude

       Table of Contents

       Scene: same as in the Prelude. The day after the play to which Estella, in the Prelude, invited her friend to accompany her.

      Sophia:

      Forgive me, dear Estelle, for keeping you waiting. I had to attend to something for the children.

      Estella:

      Here I am back again with you already. I long for your sympathy, whenever anything stirs me deeply.

      Sophia:

      Well, you know that I shall always sympathize most warmly with you in your interests.

      Estella:

      This play, of which I spoke to you, Outcasts from Body and from Soul touched me so deeply. Does it seem to you odd when I say that there were moments when all I had ever known of human sorrow stood before me? With highest artistic force the work not only gives the outer mischances, met with by so many people, but also points out with wonderful penetration the deepest agonies of the soul.

      Sophia:

      One cannot, I fear, form a proper conception of a work of art by simply hearing of its contents. But I would like you to tell me what stirred you so.

      Estella:

      The construction of the play was admirable. The artist wished to show how a young painter loses all his creative desire, because he begins to doubt his love for a woman. She had endowed him with the power to develop his promising talents. Pure enthusiasm for his art had produced in her the most beautiful love of sacrifice. To her he owed the fullest development of his abilities in his chosen field. He blossomed, as it were, in the sunshine of his benefactress. Constant association with this woman developed his gratitude into passionate love. This caused him to neglect, more and more, a poor creature who was faithfully devoted to him, and who finally died of grief, because she had to confess to herself that she had lost the heart of the man she loved. When he heard of her death, the news did not seriously disturb him, for his heart belonged entirely to his benefactress. Yet he grew ever more and more certain that her noble feeling of friendship for him would never turn to passionate love. This conviction drove all creative joy from his soul, and his inner life grew constantly more desolate. In this condition of life the poor girl, whom he had forsaken, came again into his mind, and a wrecked life was all that resulted from a hopeful and promising man. Without prospect of a single ray of light he pined away. All this is portrayed with intense dramatic vividness.

      Sophia:

      I can easily see how the play must have worked upon your feelings. As a girl you always suffered intensely at the destiny of such people, who had been driven to bitterness by heavy misfortunes in their life.

      Estella:

      My dear Sophy; you misunderstand me. I can easily distinguish between what is real and what is merely artistic. And criticism fails, I know, if one carries into it the feelings one had in life. What stirred me here so deeply was the really perfect representation of a deep problem of life. I was once again able to realize clearly how art can only mount to such heights, when it keeps close to the fulness of life. As soon as it departs therefrom, its works are untrue.

      Sophia:

      I understand you perfectly when you speak like that. I have always admired the artists who could represent what you call the reality of life. And I believe a great many have that power—especially nowadays. Nevertheless even the very highest attainments leave behind them in my soul a certain discomfort. For a long time I was unable to explain this to myself, but one day the light came that brought the answer.

      Estella:

      You mean to tell me, that your conception of the world has dispelled your appreciation of so-called realistic art?

      Sophia:

      Dear Estelle, let us not speak of my conception of the world today. You know quite well, that the emotion you have just described was entirely familiar to me long before I knew anything at all about what you call my ‘conception of the world.’ And these feelings are not only aroused in me with reference to so-called realistic art: but other things also create a similar feeling in me. It grows especially marked when I become aware of what I might call, in a higher sense, the want of truth in certain works of art.

      Estella:

      There I really cannot follow you.

      Sophia:

      A vivid grasp of real truth must needs create in the heart a sense of a certain poverty in works of art. For of course the greatest artist is always a novice compared with nature in her perfection. The most accomplished artist fails to give me what I can get from the revelation of a landscape or a

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