Immediately following. The balcony above the dais. Marta’s chambers above the square. Marta looks out a window at the crowd. Cato sits at the pianoforte.
Cato. I defy thee, Thomas Mann!
This spirit, while archaic,
Is never obsolete…
This medieval force of wonder,
While you may deny it,
Creeps through us still…
Watch me! Watch me,
In spite of your warning,
As I rush headlong
Into the apolitical void!
Free us to be separatists!
Let us bring forth
Our Romantic Regionalism!
Watch me ignore the world,
And let it destroy itself!
I care not.
I will die of my Romantic morbidity!
Your rationality of life
Is healthy boredom.
Keep your social humanitarianism,
And leave me to love!
Life is more than economics.
Marta. I am a petty bourgeois princess
With a capitalistic princedom
And a never-changing, functional view
Of right and wrong.
Sometimes we make mistakes,
But I believe that the practical, functional,
Sometimes hypocritical,
Average, ordinary motion of our lives,
Though it may be overshadowed
By your explosive Romanticism for a day,
Will, in time,
Have lasted longer,
Proved the stronger,
And generally bested the other ideas. Or rather, ideals.
Someone has to make the food,
Someone has to build the house,
And more food and a bigger house are better!
Someone has to teach the children
Right from wrong,
And make sure they brush their teeth and speak politely.
You see, a world with mundane rules,
And bourgeois, hypocritical values,
Is a world with peace and prosperity.
This is good enough!
Cato. What concerns you so at the window?
Marta. The crowds of people
Beneath my feet…
How can I be responsible
For all of this?
I have so much power,
And so little…
The kings and queens of the world
Look down on me, the little princess.
I have not even the power
To control myself.
Cato. Marta, calm yourself.
The world is not so dreary as you think.
Listen: isn’t this theme clever?
Marta. Yes, it is…
But still I worry…
What have I done?
Why am I so weak?
Cato. Oh, but listen…
Marta. I always like to listen to you.
I wish I had your talent.
Cato. You have your own talent—why did you not compete?
Marta. Form, my friend, form and fear.
You had better go. Samir is coming soon.
Cato. I hate the way he lords it over you.
How dare he tell you whom you may befriend?
And how can I leave this harpsichord?
Marta. It’ll be here when you get back.
Cato. I’ll come back later, then.
Will you be awake?
Marta. I’ll be awake all night, I’m sure.
Oh, Cato, the world is so heavy…
Cato. Marta, you don’t have to carry it all
On your own back.
Remember the endless weariness of Atlas!
Good night then, for now.
Cato exits.
Marta. Oh, how I envy you, Cato…
Your blind preoccupation with art…
How can you think so constantly of it?
It is left to me to worry
It is left to me to wonder about the future.
How may I escape?
I love him and I fear him
And he owns me.
How is it that I am so in love
With a man I do not respect?
I should never have agreed to this engagement…
But now he has the power to destroy me.
He has such power…
I can while away my hours
With a blank mind, if it’s mine,
And I can build a house in which to sleep
With only canvas and twine.
I know how to make a meal
Out of what I find and grow,
And my garments are my whimsy
When I gather, baste, and sew.
But it’s a long and lonely evening by the fireside
If it’s a fire that I built and cannot share,
And I admit it might be fine to see a land of rest
Or to let somebody help me travel there.
I’m strong enough to lift the heavy
Daily bread that fuels the home.
I can stand long hours in the sun
And walk for miles in sweat and foam.
If something’s broken, I can fix it
Or I can pay with what I earn.
I know how to heal myself
Or if I don’t know, I can learn.
But it’s a long and lonely lifetime in my confidence
When I must be responsible for every chore,
And I would rather live with any tyrant
Than huddle cold with ever-open door.
Passion triumphs over reason, Cato says.
Little does he know the truth in his words.
Even I, who know better, have been defeated by the power of passion.
It’s too late now for anything but compliance.
No one else would take me now…
Samir enters quietly.
Samir. I passed that boy on the stair again.
He spends too much time with you alone.
Marta. Samir!
If you’re talking about Cato,
He comes to play
And to talk about music with me.
Samir. You never share with me
Your thoughts about music!
Marta. But, darling, you don’t understand…
You don’t know anything about music…
Samir. That’s no excuse.
I’m not stupid!
Surely you can say to me
Whatever you say to him.
There is silence as Marta tries to think of something to say.
Samir. Dearest princess of my heart,
Goddess of my soul,
Athena! Aphrodite! Persephone!
I see your knowledge and your intelligence,
I am aware of your beauty and power.
I know that you are wonderful,
And you are mine!
Marta. Please don’t call me such names.
My name is Marta.
Can’t you call me Marta?
Samir. To me you are Persephone…
Persephone, Persephone…
Beautiful queen of death
Prisoner of hell and daughter of life
How could you think to escape from me?
How could you think to remain away?
Your place is here with me,
I have made you mine.
Your life is a struggle
Between opposing forces
Your life is caught tight
Between Scylla and Charybdis
You are nothing but a pawn.
Persephone, beautiful queen of death
You chose to eat the seeds that bind you here
How can you now complain?
Your complaints are silent nothings
Don’t you know that I can make wonderful magic
If only you will go along with what I do?
Persephone, pawn of death…