Another world?

RHODA.

Oh, you're used to his people. Your father was a missionary to the Indians, you told me.

MICHAELIS.

Yes.

RHODA.

Where?

MICHAELIS.

At Acoma.

RHODA.

Where is that?

MICHAELIS.

_Standing near the wall map, touches it._

In New Mexico, by the map.

RHODA.

_Comes nearer._

What is it like?

MICHAELIS.

It's--as you say--another world.

RHODA.

Describe it to me.

MICHAELIS.

I couldn't make you see it. It's--centuries and centuries from our time.--And since I came here, since I entered this house, it has seemed centuries away from my own life.

RHODA.

My life has seemed far off, too--my old life--

MICHAELIS.

What do you mean by your old life?

RHODA.

_She breaks out impulsively._

I mean--I mean--. Three days ago I was like one dead! I walked and ate and did my daily tasks, but--I wondered sometimes why people didn't see that I was dead, and scream at me.

MICHAELIS.

It was three days ago that I first saw you.

RHODA.

Yes.

MICHAELIS.

Three nights ago, out there in the moonlit country.

RHODA.

Yes.

MICHAELIS.

You were unhappy, then?

RHODA.

The dead are not unhappy, and I was as one dead.

MICHAELIS.

Why was that?

RHODA.

I think we die more than once when things are too hard and too bitter.

MICHAELIS.

Have things here been hard and bitter?

RHODA.

No. All that was before I came here! But it had left me feeling--. The other night, as I walked through the streets of the town, the people seemed like ghosts to me, and I myself like a ghost.