Page:Poet Lore, volume 26, 1915.djvu/352

 Výrava.—Stop! That hand which was strong enough to shoot at a son, can also

Kyral.—At a son? Did you shoot at Jeroným? So madness, too, seized you and God has punished your ambitious pride worse even than I could ever have thought. Ha! ha! ha! I must hasten to bring the unusual news to our people, to tell them how I found old Výrava at the pond. (With a malicious laugh, hastens away.)

Výrava.—O God, most powerful, preserve my senses. With all my misery am I to be made the target of base ridicule? I can not bear it, I shall die! I have killed my son,—and become the object of derision. At least save me from mockery, save me from shame, or rather take my life. (Looks towards the pond.) My life. To leave this life—to flee from it, from the whole world—to escape that threatening humiliation Oh, how that water shines in the pond and how it would cover all, all—even me! And there I’d forget everything, everything. (Involuntarily reels towards the water.)

Bětuška (Enters sobbing).—Uncle Výrava!

Výrava.—Bětuška!

Bětuška.—And are you certain that Jeroným is killed

Výrava.—You here again And am I certain? Yes, he fell, I saw him fall after the shot

Bětuška.—And did he die? Was he killed? In the village they told me that maybe you only wounded him.

Výrava (Half to himself).—Wounded—oh, if only I had merely wounded him! Then I would not be a murderer—(Aloud.) But I know nothing, nothing,—I fled, when he sank! (To himself.) If only I had not shot him!

Bětuška.—Perhaps you did not.

Výrava.—Child—child—at your words a light dawns in my soul—a light enters as the beams of yonder star into my dim eyes. Come with me, child, come away from this pond. Its water had begun to glitter strangely to me—and to whisper to me and talk to me as if it were inviting me into its depths,—where it is so peaceful and calm—where there is no storm—and no mockery! (Holding Bětuška’s hand, he departs.)