it is buried—
Runa.—It is not buried; it lives! It towers like a mountain into the present! That past means my youth, it means my ruined life! O, they say that I am wicked! I know it, I know. But who ever speaks of this, that bitterness nursed me and that sorrow fed me? O Stojmír, my soul is sick of all things and the whole world is loathsome to me! My soul is parched like a desert; in it there is no kindly water; only devastation watches there; ruin, that is its breath! Thus within me evil, or that which is called such, has outlived kindness. Evil, then, is my element; in it only can I live, as a fish in the water or a bird in the air. Good, evil! One element is like another. So then, if thou wilt have it so, yes, I am evil.
Stojmír.—Thy words grieve and disturb me. Who says that thou art evil? Thou art held in honor.
Runa.—O, they say that thou art good! So they speak, those fools! Can they not see that thou art merely weak and selfish? Thou hast permitted me to chain Radúz there to the hard cliff—perchance thou hast done this from kindness for me? But what became of thy kindness for him? I will tell thee why thou hast permitted me. When thou heardst that the prince of Croatia was to visit us, it was inconvenient for thee that he should find another prince in that old cage in the forest—no, avert not thine eyes; do but confess! Wouldst thou become a whole man in mine eyes? Then submit and give up Radúz to me entirely.
Stojmír.—Thou desirest to kill him! That is impossible, truly! My own people are already murmuring, and should I rid myself of Radúz by violence, all Magura would burst into flame and a terrible war would result—and I should not be certain of the loyalty of my own people!
Runa.—And if he remains alive and thou dost not set him free, then Magura will remain quiet?
Stojmir.—It is weaker than we and therefore hesitates long and continually has hopes that I will agree to a large ransom.
Runa.—O, speak briefly, that thou art afraid!
Stojmir.—I fear not, wife, but I retreat.
Runa.—That cowardice, I infer, is called wisdom! O, wise king! Stojmír the wise! Thus some day will the people style thee. They always find some hypocritical name to conceal the worthlessness of their kings, of which they are ashamed.
Stojmír.—Thou woundest me!
Runa.—As the truth always wounds the secret transgressor.
