ABSTRACT
Before the curtain rises, the distant, intermittent tolling of a bell is heard. A forest wilderness. A smooth, flat, shining lake, not very large. On the right bank, overgrown with rushes, is a glade, and beyond it the dark forest begins. A waning moon hangs quite low in the sky, still illuminating the lake and the glade with a faint, dull reddish light. A swarm of pale, misty, naked rusalki moves very slowly in a circle around the clearing, holding hands. Their song is also slow and even, but it is not sad. Their voices rise above the bell, which keeps on tolling steadily. When the rusalki fall silent for a few moments it is much more audible. Not all the rusalki are dancing: some, the older ones, sit on the bank dangling their feet in the water, and others are wandering through the reeds. At the edge of the glade, close to the forest, an old, rather fat rusalka sits under a large tree, slowly and efficiently combing her hair. Beside her is a very young rusalka, almost a child. She sits motionless, her thin arms clasping her naked knees, looks at the glade with a steady gaze, and the entire time seems to be listening for something. It is very late. The sliver of a moon, however, is not setting, but rising. The fog spreads over the water like a living being. OLD RUSALKA (Sighing) Your hair gets tangled, all tangled in the eddies, and you can't comb it out. (After a silence, to the young one) And why are you just sitting there? Why don't you dance? Go on, frolic with the others. (YOUNG RUSALKA remains silent and motionless, looking at the glade.) OLD RUSALKA (Indifferently) She's turned to stone again! And what a strange child she is! Even the moon doesn't seem to warm her. (She continues on combing her hair. The slow and quiet singing of the rusalki is audible, in time with their measured, gliding movements.) RUSALKI
We are the white daughters
of the shining lake,
we were born of purity and coolness.
Foam and mire and grasses caress us,
light hollow rushes fondle us;
in winter under the ice like under warm glass,
we sleep and dream of summer.
All's good: life! reality! and sleep!
