Listen, I can hear a poem--that's what I call it when an idea
begins to germinate in my mind. First the rhythm; this time like
the thunder of hooves and the jingle of spurs and accoutrements.
But there's a fluttering too, like a sail flapping. ... Banners!
LADY. No. It's the wind. Can't you hear it in the trees?
STRANGER. Quiet! They're riding over a bridge, a wooden bridge.
There's no water in the brook, only pebbles. Wait! Now I can hear
them, men and women, saying a rosary. The angels' greeting. Now I
can see--on what you're working--a large kitchen, with white-washed
walls, it has three small latticed windows, with flowers in them.
In the left-hand corner a hearth, on the right a table with wooden
seats. And above the table, in the corner, hangs a crucifix, with a
lamp burning below. The ceiling's of blackened beams, and dried
mistletoe hangs on the wall.
LADY (frightened). Where can you see all that?
STRANGER. On your work.
LADY. Can you see people there?
STRANGER. A very old man's sitting at the table, bent over a game
bag, his hands clasped in prayer. A woman, so longer young, kneels
on the floor. Now once more I hear the angels' greeting, as if far
away. But those two in the kitchen are as motionless as figures of
wax. A veil shrouds everything. ... No, that was no poem! (Waking.)
It was something else.
LADY. It was reality! The kitchen at home, where you've never set
foot. That old man was my grandfather, the forester, and the woman
my mother! They were praying for us! It was six o'clock and the
servants were saying a rosary outside, as they always do.
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