It is time to return to the city. The sun has set and it is dusking over the city already. It has become very silent.—But why don’t you answer, Marcellus, why do you look so absently into the distance?

I remembered that there in the distance the sea washes the shores of this country; I remembered that beyond the sea, the eternal, god-like Rome rises to the stars, where no day lacks a celebration. And I am here on this strange earth. All this I remembered. But I forgot. It is probably time that you return to the city. It’s dusking. And at the time of twilight a girl is waiting before the gates of the city for Agathon. Don’t let her wait, Agathon, don’t let her wait, your beloved. I say to you the women of this country are very peculiar; I know they are full of mysteries. Do not let your beloved wait; because one never knows what can happen. In a moment dreadfulness can happen. One should never miss the moment.

Why do you speak like this to me?

I mean if she is beautiful, your beloved, you should not let her wait. I say to you a beautiful woman is something eternally unexplainable. The beauty of woman is a mystery. One does not see through her. One never knows what a beautiful woman can be, what she is forced to do. That is it, Agathon! Alas you—I knew one. I knew one, I saw things happen which I shall never fathom. No person would ever fathom them. We never see the reason for the events.

What did you see happening? I beg you, tell me more about this!

Let us go. Perhaps an hour has come when I am able to say it without trembling before my own words and thoughts. (They slowly walk the way back to Jerusalem. Stillness is around them.)

It took place on a glowing summer night, when fever lurks in the air and moon confuses the senses. There I saw her. It was in a small tavern. She danced there, danced with naked feet on an expensive carpet. I never saw a woman dancing more beautifully, more intoxicated; the rhythm of her body showed me strange dark dream images, so that hot feverish shivers shook through my body. It looked to me as if this woman played in dance with invisible, delicious, hidden things, as if she embraced god-like beings, that no one saw, as if she kissed red lips inclining to her demandingly; her movements were those of the highest lust; it seemed as if she was overwhelmed with caresses. She seemed to see things which we could not see, and played with them in dance, relished them in the egregious ecstasies of her body. Perhaps she lifted her mouth to delicious, sweet fruits and sipped fiery wine, when she threw back her head and her look was directed upward demandingly. No! I did not understand this, nevertheless everything was strangely alive—it was there. And then sank cloakless, only overflowed by her hair, down to our feet. It was as if the night had gathered into a black clew in her hair and removed her from us. But she gave herself, gave her wonderful body, gave to everyone who wanted to have it. I saw her love beggars and commoners, princes and kings. She was the most lovely hetaera. Her body was a delicious vessel of joy, the world has not seen more beautiful. Her life belonged to joy alone. I saw her dancing during binges and her body was showered with roses. But she stood in the midst of bright roses like a just flourishing, single beautiful flower. And I saw her crowning the statue of Dionysus with flowers, saw her embrace the cold marble like she embraced her lovers that she smothered with her burning, feverish kisses.—- And then one came, who walked by, wordless, without gesture, and was clothed in a hairy garment, and dust was on his feet. He walked by and looked on her—and was past. But she gazed after Him, paralyzed in her movement—and walked, walked, and followed that strange prophet, who had perhaps called her with the eyes, followed His call and sank down to His feet. Humbled herself before Him—and looked up to Him as if to a god; served Him, like the men served Him who were around Him.

You are not yet at the end. I feel you want to say more.

I do not know more. No! But one day I found out that they would nail that eccentric prophet to the cross. I found it out from our governor Pilate. And then I wanted to go out to Golgotha, wanted to see that one, wanted to see Him die. Perhaps a mysterious event would become obvious to me. I wanted to gaze into His eyes; His eyes would have perhaps spoken to me. I believe they would have spoken.

And you did not go!

I was on the way there. But I turned back. Because I felt I would meet her outside, on the knees before the cross to pray to Him, listening to the fleeing of His life. In ecstasy. And then I turned back again. And in me it remained dark.

But that strange one?—No, we will not speak of that.

Let us be silent about it, Agathon! We can do nothing else.—But look, Agathon, how it glows strangely dark in the clouds. One could guess that behind the clouds an ocean of flames blazes. A godly fire! And the sky is like a blue bell. It is as if one heard it ring in deep, solemn tones. One could even suppose that there above in the unattainable heights something happens, about which one will never know anything. But one can anticipate it sometimes when the large silence has descended over the earth. And still! All this is very confusing. The gods love to give us humans unsolvable mysteries. But the earth does not save us from the guile of the gods; because it is also full of bewitching. Things and people confuse me. Certainly! The things are very taciturn! And the human soul does not give away its mysteries. When one asks, it is silent.

We want to live and not question. Life is full of beauty.

We will never know about much. Yes! And therefore it would be desirable to forget what we know. Enough of it! We are soon at the goal. But look how abandoned the roads are. One sees no more people. (A wind rises up.) This is a voice that says to us we have to look to the stars. And silence.

Marcellus, look, how high the grain stands in the acres. Each blade bends earthward, heavy with fruit. The harvest days will be wonderful.

Yes! Festive days! Festive days, my Agathon!

I will go with Rachel through the fields, through the fruit-heavy, blessed acres! O you wonderful life!

You are right! Be happy with your youth. Youth alone is beauty! It suits me to wander in the darkness. But here our ways separate. Your bloved waits for you, for me—the silence of the night! Farewell, Agathon! It will be a wonderfully beautiful night. One can remain in the outdoors a long time.

And can look up to the stars—to the mighty tranquility. I will go merrily on my way and praise the beauty. Thus one honors oneself and the gods.

Do like you say, and you do right! Farewell, Agathon!

Only one thing I still want to ask you. You shouldn’t think anything by it that I ask this. What was the name of that strange prophet? Tell me!

What use is it to you to know! I forgot his name. But no! I remember! I remember! He was called Jesus and was from Nazareth!

I thank you! Farwell! May the gods be kind to you, Marcellus! (He goes.)

Jesus!—Jesus! And was from Nazareth. (He goes slowly and pensively on his way. Night has appeared and in the sky innumerable stars shine.)