THE PORTRESS. [To THE DAUGHTER] Can I have my shawl back now?
THE DAUGHTER. No, dear, be free a while. I shall attend to your duties—for I want to study men and life, and see whether things really are as bad as they say.
THE PORTRESS. But it won't do to fall asleep here—never sleep night or day——
THE DAUGHTER. No sleep at night?
THE PORTRESS. Yes, if you are able to get it, but only with the bell string tied around the wrist—for there are night watchmen on the stage, and they have to be relieved every third hour.
THE DAUGHTER. But that is torture!
THE PORTRESS. So you think, but people like us are glad enough to get such a job, and if you only knew how envied I am——
THE DAUGHTER. Envied?—Envy for the tortured?
THE PORTRESS. Yes—But I can tell you what is harder than all drudging and keeping awake nights, harder to bear than draught and cold and dampness—it is to receive the confidences of all the unhappy people up there—They all come to me. Why? Perhaps they read in the wrinkles of my face some runes that are graved by suffering and that invite confessions—In that shawl, dear, lie hidden thirty years of my own and other people's agonies.
THE DAUGHTER. It is heavy, and it burns like nettles.