STRANGER. What? My confession?
CONFESSOR. Yes. But I couldn't give you absolution; because it
seemed that what you said was spoken in fever.
STRANGER. Why?
CONFESSOR. There was hardly a sin or vice you didn't take upon
yourself--things so hateful you'd have had to undergo strict
penitence before demanding absolution. Now you're yourself again I
can ask whether there are grounds for your self-accusations.
(The ABBESS leaves them.)
STRANGER. Have you the right?
CONFESSOR. No. In truth, no right. (Pause.) But you want to know in
whose company you are! The very best. There, for instance, is a
madman, Caesar, who lost his wits through reading the works of a
certain writer whose notoriety is greater than his fame. There's a
beggar, who won't admit he's a beggar, because he's learnt Latin
and is free. There, a doctor, called the werewolf, whose history's
well known. There, two parents, who grieved themselves to death
over a son who raised his hand against theirs. He must be
responsible for refusing to follow his father's bier and
desecrating his mother's grave. There's his unhappy sister, whom he
drove out into the snow, as he himself recounts, with the best
intentions. Over there's a woman who's been abandoned with her two
children, and there's another doing crochet work. ... All are old
acquaintances. Go and greet them!
(The STRANGER has turned his back on the company: he now goes to
the table, left, and sits down with his back to them.
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