I don't know what you, who profess to know everything, know about us, but anyone who thinks Karl capable of one base thought must be very low and contemptible himself.
DEVIL
[Goes behind OLGA and whispers into her ear. At the end of the speech he is a little to the L. of them by the big chair.
It's not a base thought: it's a great thought—a thought that brings joy and warmth and light into your wretched little lives. But joy has its price—and you must pay it, you misers! The drunkard dies of drink, but while he is drunk angels in heaven sing to him. The poet dies in the ecstasy of his sweetest song. It is a coward's bravery that turns away from the wine, the song—and the lips of woman. The smallest candle-end shows you it is worth while to burn up for the sake of a little warmth—a little light. The only end of life is to burn—to burn yourself up. You must flame and blaze like a torch and toss the fire about you. I know: your moralists tell you to love one another—don't believe them—your grubby little earth with its paltry million years is not ripe for such a love as that. It can only breed monks, madmen, Methodists. Don't be a fool, be a rogue—but be a jolly rogue—and the world is yours! Look at me! I own the earth. Here is the key of life—Love yourself—only yourself. Dress yourself in the softest garments—kiss the sweetest lips—drink of the wine of Life—Drink! Drink! Drink!
[Bell rings sharply—nobody moves.
OLGA, after a pause, in a low voice
My husband—
DEVIL
[Steps down from the chair, crossing C., snaps his fingers angrily, and says afterwards, in a cold, cynical tone:
Mr. Wheat.