[Defensively.] I never did you any wrong! Never, Irene!
Yes, you did! You did wrong to my innermost, inborn nature—
[Starting back.] I—!
Yes, you! I exposed myself wholly and unreservedly to your gaze—[More softly.] And never once did you touch me.
Irene, did you not understand that many a time I was almost beside myself under the spell of all your loveliness?
[Continuing undisturbed.] And yet—if you had touched me, I think I should have killed you on the spot. For I had a sharp needle always upon me—hidden in my hair— [Strokes her forehead meditatively.] But after all—after all—that you could—
[Looks impressively at her.] I was an artist, Irene.
[Darkly.] That is just it. That is just it.
An artist first of all. And I was sick with the desire to achieve the great work of my life. [Losing himself in recollection.] It was to be called "The Resurrection Day"—figured in the likeness of a young woman, awakening from the sleep of death—
Our child, yes—