STRANGER. Why do you lead me along this winding, hilly path, that never comes to an end?
CONFESSOR. Such is the way, my friend. But now we'll soon be there. (He leads the STRANGER farther up stage. The STRANGER sees the Monastery, and is enchanted by it; he takes off his hat, and puts down his wallet and staff.) Well?
STRANGER. I've never seen anything so white on this polluted earth. At most, only in my dreams! Yes, that's my youthful dream of a house in which peace and purity should dwell. A blessing on you, white house! Now I've come home!
CONFESSOR. Good! But first we must await the pilgrims on this bank. It's called the bank of farewell, because it's the custom to say farewell here, before the ferryman ferries one across.
STRANGER. Haven't I said enough farewells already? Wasn't my whole life one thorny path of farewells? At post offices, steamer-quays, railway stations—with the waving of handkerchiefs damp with tears?
CONFESSOR. Yet your voice trembles with the pain what you've lost.
STRANGER. I don't feel I've lost anything. I don't want anything back.
CONFESSOR. Not even your youth?
STRANGER. That least of all. What should I do with it, and its capacity for suffering?
CONFESSOR. And for enjoyment?