ANTONINUS: Speak not of such things. Speak not, I say.
[SATAN _is leaning leisurely against the wall, smiling through the
window._
SATAN: How the leaves are shining. Now she is seated on the grass. They
have gathered small flowers, Antoninus, and put them in her hair, a row
of primroses.
ANTONINUS (_his eyes go for a moment on to far, far places.
Unintentionally_): What colour?
SATAN: Black.
ANTONINUS: No, no, no! I did not mean her hair. No, no. I meant the
flowers.
SATAN: Yellow, Antoninus.
ANTONINUS (_flurried_): Ah, of course, yes, yes.
SATAN: Sixteen and seventeen and fifteen, and another of sixteen. All
young girls. The age for you, Antoninus, if I make you twenty. Just the
age for you.
ANTONINUS: You--you cannot.
SATAN: All things are possible unto me except salvation.
ANTONINUS: How?
SATAN: Give me your gaud. Then meet me at any hour between star-shining
and cock-crow under the big cherry tree, when the moon is waning.
ANTONINUS: Never.
SATAN: Ah, Spring, Spring. They are dancing. Such nimble ankles.
[ANTONINUS _raises his scourge._
SATAN (_more gravely_): Think, Antoninus, forty or fifty more Springs.
ANTONINUS: Never, never, never.
SATAN: And no more striving next time. See Antoninus, see them as they
dance, there with the may behind them under the hill.
Pages:
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97